Harry Potter and the Warrior's Code
by bballgirl32
Summary: An odd, dark-haired man rescues Harry from the Dursleys when he's nine years old. Harry would have been thrilled if his saviour didn't claim to be a disillusioned madman come back in time to stop his other self from taking over the world. Add to that his apparent belief that Harry is important to his plans, and things become just a little bit complicated.
1. The (Possibly) Mad Man

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, nor am I making any money off of this story. Unfortunately.**

**...**

In his cupboard, wrapped in a threadbare blanket and curled in on himself to ward off the evening chill, Harry Potter tried to make patterns out of the cracks on the underside of the stairs. The exercise helped distract him from the gnawing in his stomach. He'd burnt breakfast that morning—Uncle Vernon had asked him to pour his coffee while he was supposed to be tending the eggs, and he hadn't been able to properly do both at once—so he'd been sent to the cupboard as soon as his chores were finished. The Dursleys hadn't let him out for lunch.

Or supper.

It was while he was attempting to forget the hunger brought about by this turn of events that the house shook. Dust from the stairs fell on his head, and Harry jolted into a sitting position, nearly banging his head against the low ceiling in his surprise. Before Harry could determine whether he ought to sneak out and see what'd happened, pounding echoed overhead. Uncle Vernon (the pounding was more the sort to be expected from a lumbering bulldozer than a bouncing wale, meaning that it was his uncle and not his cousin) was trampling down the stairs.

That decided him about sneaking out. If his uncle was taking a look, Harry certainly didn't want to do so; he'd only get in trouble for leaving the cupboard.

Vernon muttered something to himself as he headed for the door. From what few words Harry could catch, it sounded as though his uncle viewed the shaking of the house as some sort of prank.

Then Vernon's voice abruptly cut off, and the reverberations from his footsteps stopped.

"Ah, you must be the owner of this house," said a voice, and Harry leaned forward so as to hear it more clearly; it was the type of voice that a person couldn't help but enjoy listening to. Smooth and charming and soft as velvet. He didn't know how the man had gotten in (although he guessed that maybe the shaking in the house had something to do with a door being blown down), but Harry was already curious as to what he had to say.

"And who in the devil's name are you?" snapped Vernon.

"That's not for you to know." The man sounded almost threatening. "I'm here for one particular reason, and it has nothing to do with you, nor your whore of a wife or hog of a son. If you do not cause me trouble, I will not hurt you. If you do _anything _to make things difficult for myself, well… I think it's best I not go into specifics. I wouldn't want to tempt myself." The hair on the back of Harry's neck stood almost straight up. If the man wasn't there for Vernon or Petunia or Dudley…

"You want the boy. You… you're one of _them." _

The man chuckled. "Oh, I'm not just one of them. I'm the most dangerous of all of them. And I can read your mind—I know what the term '_them'_ means to you. You believe I'm a freak. If you weren't so terrified, you would be belittling and threatening me in the same manner you do the child who has been entrusted into your care. It's pathetic, really. Do you know there are wizards who view your kind as nothing more than primitive animals? Ten years ago, a war was waged by a madman who wanted nothing more than to enslave your entire race. The only thing that stopped him from succeeding was the boy you've got locked in a cupboard."

Harry's eyes were wide. He didn't understand what was going on, not entirely, but what little he could glean from the conversation was surely too fantastic to be true.

"Say I believe you," growled Vernon. "What do you have to do with any of this?"

"What do I have to do with it?" The musical lilt of his voice turned terrifying. "Dear Mister Dursley, it just so happens that _I _am the madman."

Harry's heart stopped.

"G-get out," snapped Vernon. "Right now-"

"Only if you give him to me."

_Make him leave, _thought Harry, for all his initial curiosity had faded to fear. He didn't want a madman to take him, especially not one who talked about wanting to enslave people—one who seemed to think that _Harry _had caused him to lose a war. He prayed that Uncle Vernon would have some decency, that he would claim Harry didn't exist or that he wasn't home. Some little part of him even hoped that his uncle might physically protect him.

Of course, such hopes were nothing more than desperate fantasies.

"Take him," spluttered Vernon. "T-take him, and _leave_."

"Wise choice."

Footsteps approached the cupboard, and Harry huddled in on himself, terrified of the person he knew would soon find him.

He was shocked when the door opened to reveal a handsome, dark-haired man who looked to be in his early thirties. He was well-dressed and neatly groomed, his hair brushed to the side in a slightly dated style, regal cheekbones prominent on a perfectly sculpted face.

_An angel_, thought Harry, until he recalled the conversation he'd overheard and reminded himself that the man was likely a violent lunatic.

"Do not fear, child," said the man. "I know you are afraid of what you heard, but I have no desire to hurt you." He knelt in front of Harry and offered him an expression that was almost reassuring. "I want to take you away from here and give you a real home."

Harry blinked. "I don't understand."

"But you will."

Terrified as he was, Harry knew he had no choice. Resignation settling heavy in his stomach, he nodded as was expected of him; going along with the desires of those more powerful than himself made things much easier in the long run. The Dursleys had taught him that much.

"Okay," he whispered.

"Good. Now, gather anything you'd like to take with you. I'd prefer not to linger longer than necessary."

Harry did as asked, picking up his tattered book bag and packing his broken toy soldiers, what little clothing he had, and a book of children's stories he'd swiped from Dudley's room when no one was looking. The stranger watched him carefully, but did not comment on Harry's lack of belongings.

When Harry was finished, the man extended a hand to help him up. Harry took a moment to gather his courage before grasping it.

"Now, I believe we've both outstayed our welcome." He glanced at Vernon, deliberated for a moment, and pulled a stick of wood out of his pocket. "Obliviate," he said, and a flash of light struck the large man and sent him to the ground.

Harry stared in shock and horror. "W-what-"

"I erased his memory," said the man calmly. "He won't sustain permanent damage. Really, I cannot understand why you would show concern even if I _had _killed him. He has treated you horribly."

"That doesn't mean you should hurt him," Harry protested. "It's wrong!" Quickly he remembered himself and clamped his mouth shut, but the man did not appear to be angry.

"No. Say what you think, child. It's been much too long since I've known anyone brave enough to do so. I find the change refreshing."

Harry shook his head. "Who _are _you?"

"I am Tom Riddle. That is all I have time to tell you at the moment. The rest can wait until later." They stepped outside, and Tom turned to Harry. "Hold on tight. This will be vaguely unpleasant."

Then he turned, and both he and Harry vanished into thin air.

…

Tom watched carefully as the Boy-Who-Lived fell to his knees after apparating the first time, his eyes wide and face pale. He gagged several times but did not throw up. Judging by the thinness of his arms and legs, Tom guessed that it was not due to a strong stomach, but because there was nothing in his system to expel. Anger tightened in his gut, but he forced it back. He was attempting to forge a different path than the one he'd taken previously. Beginning that endeavor with a death (or three) on his hands would not be a good start.

"W-what did you _do_?" spluttered Harry.

"I apparated," said Tom. "It's the most common method of transportation amongst witches and wizards."

"W-witches? Wizards?"

Tom wasn't sure whether Dumbledore was incredibly stupid or woefully naïve to have left the boy with Muggles who neglected to so much as tell him of the existence of magic, let alone that he himself was a wizard with an extraordinarily important destiny.

_This was why I was able to defeat him so easily the last time_, thought Tom, shaking his head. The child should have been trained from the moment he could walk, brought up in a world where he knew his place, knew how to fight, and knew what was expected of him. He should have been given instruction and support. He should have been cared for.

He _shouldn't _have grown up in circumstances so similar, and in some ways worse, than the ones Tom himself had faced. Dumbledore was lucky he hadn't had another dark wizard on his hands. It was only Harry's strength of character that had kept Tom from having to face him as competition instead of as a true enemy.

"Yes," said Tom, in his most patient voice. "Witches and wizards. I know you haven't been told any of this, but magic is real. In fact, _you _are magical."

He blinked. "No, but that's not possible. I can't be a- a _wizard. _I'm just Harry."

Just Harry indeed.

"Oh, you're more than a wizard, Harry Potter. You're an important one."

"You think I lost you a war," said Harry accusingly. "That's what you told Uncle Vernon."

Tom wasn't sure whether to be irritated or impressed by the boldness of his tone.

"I don't _think _it, Harry. I know that you lost me a war. However, the situation is much more complex than that. I suppose… well, I _did _start a war, and you defeated me. My defeat, however, was not permanent-"

"Obviously," muttered Harry.

Tom shook his head. "No, not obviously. See, when I came back from my initial defeat, it was not as a man. It was as a monster. You tried and failed to beat me once more, and in the aftermath of your loss, I took over the world."

"But you haven't..." Harry trailed off, as though afraid to contradict him.

Tom merely shook his head. "You'd be amazed at what a person can accomplish with magic. I ruled for hundreds of years, and it made me miserable. Things I had not thought to appreciate were suddenly gone, and nothing I'd thought I wanted offered me even the smallest amount of satisfaction. Eventually, I grew unable to continue such an existence. Using extraordinarily complex magic, I went back in time to ensure that the bleak reality I once created never comes to pass. Unfortunately, I could not inhabit my already present body; I came back with my entire physical being, and as such, there are now two Tom Riddles in this plane of existence."

Harry blinked. "You must be mad."

"In some senses? Of course. But in this I am telling the absolute truth."

"Even if you are, I d-don't understand why you'd come for _me_."

Tom shrugged. "I've come for you for a number of reasons, one of them being that we share a connection of sorts. Or rather, the creature I once was shared a connection with you."

"You once were?" asked Harry blankly.

Tom attempted to elaborate. "Since returning to this time, I've taken rather painful measures to regain certain aspects of my humanity. Those measures have changed me enough that I can no longer identify with the monster I used to be. You must remember that, if nothing else. I am _not_ Lord Voldemort."

"But it doesn't make any sense!" Harry protested.

Tom took a deep breath, gathering his patience as best he could. "I realize that this is overwhelming. In fact, there are few grown wizards who could fully understand what I am telling them. Do not think too much into it."

"But-"

"But I am not who I once was. That's all you need to know on that particular matter." He cleared his throat. "Now, as I'd been attempting to say, I came for you for more than one reason; one of these is the connection I'd mentioned. The others are too complicated to get into at the moment, but all are harmless. I promise that it is not my intention to hurt you." Some of his motives were more manipulative than he was suggesting, but Tom would keep that to himself for the time being; Harry's cooperation was integral in defeating his other self, and while Tom knew he'd have to come clean sometime very soon (he didn't want Harry to stumble upon sensitive information by other means before certain things could be explained), he couldn't risk chasing Harry off _quite _yet.

Of course, it'd occurred to Tom that he really didn't need to bother explaining things, or even taking Harry in at all, when he could simply seek out and defeat Voldemort himself.

It was only the awareness of what inevitable consequences would stem from such drastic action that kept him from acting. His initial defeat at the hands of the baby Potter had taught him that attempting to subvert prophecy only invited it to happen. Things _would_ play out in a similar vein as they had before. He couldn't change that, but he did have the power to alter the end result. With his influence, Harry Potter could grow into someone well able to defeat his other self. Tom also needed to ensure that the boy had enough strength of character to face down Voldemort with every intention of dying; it was the only way to get rid of the Horcrux inside of him without risking his life or sanity. Given, Tom would have willingly sacrificed anyone else if it meant getting rid of the abomination more easily, but Harry had to be alive to finish Voldemort off.

Tom also allowed, albeit reluctantly, that he did not want the boy to die unnecessarily. Harry had always impressed him, whether it was in standing against him and surviving all but the last of their encounters, hunting and destroying every one of his Horcruxes, or even emerging from a childhood so similar to Tom's own with a sense of morality that was as intriguing as it was disconcerting. To allow such a person to perish when there was an alternative seemed almost perverse.

Really, it was those same (slightly discomfiting) sentiments that had decided Tom on taking the boy in himself, rather than influencing him through less direct means. Oddly enough, he genuinely wanted Harry to reach his full potential. Not only because of the intrinsic benefits, but because he was fascinated by the prospect of what the boy could do given the right instruction and motivation.

An even smaller part of him had decided to attach himself to Harry for his own sake; if anyone could keep him from falling back into the behavior that'd caused so much damage in that other reality, it would be Harry Potter.

"I don't trust you," said Harry baldly.

Tom smirked. "You'd be a fool if you did." He nodded towards the manor to which he'd brought them, smirk growing as Harry's eyes widened upon noticing it for the first time. "Come, Harry. It's time you explore your new home."

…

**A/N- **

So, I'm writing another Philosopher's Stone AU. This one (clearly) is going to center around Harry and Tom. To be entirely honest, I was planning on writing a story about Voldemort taking over the world and hating it so much that he went back to his Hogwarts years to keep it from happening. As it is, I wasn't up to the challenge of finding a plot that didn't center around defeating Voldemort, nor of developing personalities for a host of characters who are only known because of an old tapestry and J.K. Rowling's notes.

And goodness, am I grateful that I went this direction instead. I started without high hopes, but plot bunnies abounded and this has grown into much more than a rewriting of Philosopher's Stone (or any of the books after it). The basic story line is similar, but there's at least one _big _extra plot point that I can't wait to introduce. I'm having an easier time with the characters as well. Honestly, I've got high hopes for this; even if you think it starts a bit slow, things pick up and get interesting quickly, so please stick with it. Constructive criticism is also appreciated. _  
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_p.s.: That other story I mentioned as the foundation for this one? I've got five-hundred words of it written (it's mainly Voldemort's thoughts as he realizes how much a mess of things he's made of things). I didn't think it was relevant enough to include, but it could easily __serve as a prologue for this fic. If you want to read it, either leave word in a review or shoot me a PM and I'll send it to you. _


	2. The Manor and the Murderer

…

Ch.2

…

The Manor and the Murderer

...

The manor that Tom Riddle acquired was not his. In all actuality, it was an old Black estate that Regulus (the traitorous bastard) had allowed him to borrow during the early years of the war. The wards had been altered to accept Tom as the owner, and as there were currently no free Blacks to attempt to claim the place, it was as good a home as any to settle into. In any case, he'd already reworked the magic in the building so that it no longer responded to the Black family, in addition to adding extra warding to keep out trespassers.

Once the spells around the property had been suitably adjusted, he'd acquired a number of house elves and set them to cleaning the interior of the manor. While they were at work turning the building into a suitable home for raising a child, Tom went out and collected a number of belongings that he'd hidden before the end of the last war, including a library of books he'd sequestered in the Riddle House, a number of useful artifacts, and what Horcruxes he'd been able to acquire.

The latter, he'd taken pains to restore to himself—a lengthy, agonizing process that he already dreaded having to repeat.

By the time he'd finished settling his affairs, the house had been largely restored, several rooms set aside for training Harry, and the second largest bedroom decorated in a manner he imagined the boy would appreciate.

The efforts Tom (and the house elves) expended to make the manor suitable clearly left Harry in shock. The distrust that had been evident in his eyes up until they entered the home dissipated in favor of blatant awe, his jaw dropping slightly as he took in the high ceilings and marble staircases, the moving portraits and shining tile floors and regal statues tastefully arranged throughout the entrance hall.

"This can't be real," said Harry.

Tom chuckled. "It is more real than anything you've experienced until this point. It was the rest of your childhood that was a lie—a series of falsehoods to make you believe that you were less than you truly are. This, Harry Potter, is what you are entitled to. It is what you _deserve_."

"You must be mistaken," the boy breathed.

"I assure you, I am not." He felt the most absurd urge to smile at the boy's expression (was that what he himself had looked like when he'd seen Hogwarts for the first time?), but repressed the compulsion. "Now, I shall have one of my house elves give you a tour of the manor. When you are settled in, why don't we meet for a late evening meal? I imagine you are quite hungry."

"House elf?"

Tom nodded. "Missy, come here."

Harry reared back when the elf popped up out of nowhere, blinking rapidly at the sight of the small creature.

"What can Missy be doing for Master Riddle, sir?"

"Missy, this is Harry Potter. You're to show him around the manor and make sure he is comfortable in his new room," said Tom, his voice polite if not slightly strained. He was attempting to treat his house elves with some measure of respect, no matter that it was frustratingly difficult for him to do so. He'd had to order one never to speak unless asked because the creature's endless simpering had made it much too tempting to kill, but he had managed to avoid harming the imbecilic little servant.

It was... progress, of a sort. He could already tell that restraining himself from small acts of violence would be necessary to work him up to accepting the more difficult aspects of decency.

In that way, he imagined that regaining his humanity was precisely the opposite of losing it. He hadn't needed to _learn _how to be evil; doing so had come no less naturally than falling to the ground after jumping off a cliff. Being good, on the other hand, was painfully similar to having to climb back up the cliff after landing in a broken heap on the ground.

Politeness to house elves was one step, but he had many more to climb.

(Then again, he supposed he'd be skipping his fair share of steps as well. It was necessary for practicality's sake, as there were simply some standard morals he absolutely couldn't abide. It would make things simpler, and really, cutting corners now and then wouldn't kill anyone.

Probably.)

"Harry Potter, sir? This be _Harry Potter_?"

Tom started out of his thoughts at the house elf's high-pitched voice, eyes narrowing at the ridiculous reverence in its ton.

Maybe he would have to order this one to shut up permanently as well.

"Yes, Missy," said Tom curtly. "It's Harry Potter. Yes, he's done much for house elves. _However_, you are not to fawn over him. Be kind and hospitable, but not worshipful. It will make the boy uncomfortable."

Harry looked almost relieved at the order, but Missy appeared mortified. "I be very sorry, Master Riddle, sir." She looked to Harry. "I will not be making Mister Harry Potter uncomfortable. No, no, no. Missy will not be worshipful to Mister Harry Potter. This is right, yes?"

"Um… yes?" said Harry dubiously.

"Then Missy will do this. Now come with Missy, Mister Harry Potter, sir. Missy will show you the manor, and Missy will be kind and hospitable. Of course Missy will be, sir."

Harry hesitated when the elf started walking, but Tom nodded at him to follow, and Harry did so, relaxing just enough for a small smile to appear on his face before he turned and fell into step next to Missy.

…

Harry knew—he _knew_—that he shouldn't let himself be won over by pretty things, but it was very difficult not to like Tom when the man had taken him from the Dursleys and placed him in a mansion. It looked like something fit for a _king_, and Missy the house elf was very sweet (if not a little strange), and when she finally showed Harry his bedroom, he almost fell over it was so brilliant.

"This is all for me?" he asked, eyes wide.

"Oh, of course, Harry Potter sir. Master Riddle, he had all of us elves making up the whole house nice just for Harry Potter, but this room most of all. It's to be home for you, Mister Harry Potter."

"Home," Harry repeated, testing the word.

He didn't think that he could wrap his head around the idea of this amazing place being his home, not yet, but it was _definitely _a thought he could get used to.

"Do you like it, Mister Harry Potter, sir?"

"I love it," said Harry honestly, sitting tentatively on the edge of his enormous bed. The room was decorated in silver and midnight blue, and the ceiling was obviously magical, because it'd been done up to look _exactly _like the night sky, with galaxies and constellations and the moon all shining straight down on him. The cream-colored carpet was the softest he'd ever felt and so thick that his feet sunk into it when he walked. There were also mahogany bookshelves, all filled to the brim, that took up two whole walls. The third wall was all windows, giving him a perfect view of the forest that surrounded the manor. In the distance he could see the edges of a lake peeking out from near the trees. It was the most stunning sight he'd ever seen in his life, and he was blown away by the knowledge that he could look at it every day if Tom was telling the truth.

"The windows be facing east, sir, so that Mister Harry Potter can see the sunrise. Master Riddle says that he thinks Mister Harry Potter would like that."

"He's right," murmured Harry, lips twitching into a smile. "I would."

For a moment he sat in the middle of his big room, staring out the big window, before he remembered that Tom had wanted him to come down to eat when he was finished with the tour. "Um, Missy? Can you take me to meet Tom now."

"Of course, Mister Harry Potter, sir. Follow Missy."

He started walking next to her. "You can just call me Harry, you know."

"_Missy_, call Mister Harry Potter _Harry_?" She looked horrified, and Harry opened his mouth to offer a hasty apology for apparently offending her, but the elf spoke again before he could. "It would be an _honor_, Mister Harry Potter, sir." Harry raised a brow, and tentatively, Missy said, "I- I mean, _Harry_."

His lips twitched. "Thanks, Missy." He hesitated, but couldn't help but ask, "Um… Do you know why Tom did all this? Why… why he brought me here?"

Missy nodded. "Master Riddle is wanting to help you, Mister- _Harry. _He came out of nowhere, and we were all very frightened, because we've heard stories of a Mister Tom Riddle, but he told us—he said that it isn't him anymore, and he be telling the truth, yes he be. He doesn't let us hurt ourselves, and when Tamsy be irritating Mister Tom Riddle, he told Tamsy to be shutting his mouth—he didn't hurt Tamsy at all, no he didn't. He's a good master, Master Riddle is. He gets very angry sometimes, but he never takes it out on us. No, he goes away and yells nasty things, but he doesn't hurt no one."

Harry wasn't sure whether that was reassuring or not.

"Er, that's good that he doesn't hurt you, but _how _does he want to help me?"

"Oh, Master Riddle doesn't tell us that, but he does want to help. He's trying to be good, Mister Harry Potter. Trying so very hard."

"Okay," said Harry. "I… think I understand?"

"Good, good, good," said Missy happily. "It's much important that you know that, Harry Potter, sir."

They reached a small dining room soon after. Tom was already sitting at the table. He'd been wearing strange dark robes before, but now he'd discarded them and was dressed in a simple pair of black slacks and a white button-up top. He looked younger without the robes. Almost _youthful. _If it weren't for the agelessness of his eyes, Harry might've thought him merely a teenager.

He paused a moment at the oddness of it—he'd appeared _at least _thirty before—and couldn't help but ask, "How old are you, Tom?"

Tom looked up. "That's not a very polite question."

Harry blushed. "I'm sorry, but you mentioned something about hundreds of years before, and… that's not possible."

"I made it possible, child. I was born in 1928. I lived until 2434 and went back in time from there. That makes me five-hundred and six."

Even with the impossible things that had happened to him over the past few hours, that was very difficult for him to believe.

"Then why do you look so young?"

"Magic," said Tom. "For some time, I looked like a monster—I _was _a monster. I grew tired of seeing such a face and knowing it was mine, so I changed my features magically. When I came back in time and took measures to regain my humanity, my appearance altered more naturally to something similar to its original state. For the next few years, I shall remain like this, but when… certain events play out, my last anchor to immortality will be gone, and I shall start to age normally."

"Oh." Harry took a seat across from Tom and looked up at him curiously, entranced despite himself. "Are you scared?"

He shook his head. "No. I used to be scared of nothing more than death, but I've learned that sometimes it is living beyond your years that is most horrifying. I'm here now to ensure that I do die." His eyes flashed with something, but he pushed it back quickly and nodded at the dishes set across the table. "Now, eat. You'll have all the time in the world for questions. For now, you need food and rest."

"But-"

"One more question," said Tom. "The rest will wait."

Harry acknowledged that he was tired and _did _need sleep, and so did not argue. "How long do you _really _plan to let me stay here?"

"A wise question." Tom smiled slightly. "I may not have made myself clear before, but I intend to raise you from this point forward. If it's agreeable to you, you will stay here until you graduate from school."

"Do I have a choice?" he asked, because he had the strangest feeling that most people would say that he'd been kidnapped.

"I could take you back to the Dursleys," Tom allowed, and there was something in his eyes that said he _would_, if Harry truly desired it. "You tell me. _Is _that a choice?"

Harry thought of how Tom treated him with respect, and of the prospect of learning magic, and of the mystery of the five-hundred-year-old man in front of him. He thought of his new room with the view of the forest and lake, and the stars on the ceiling and bookshelves on the walls. He thought of Missy and whatever elves roamed the manor, and he thought of how new and exciting everything was in comparison to the life he lived with the Dursleys.

Thoughts of Tom's conversation with Uncle Vernon flashed through his head, and Harry poured over the knowledge that Tom had obviously been horrible, that he'd been evil, but Missy said that he was trying to be good now, and that was enough for Harry.

"No," he said. "There is no choice. I want to stay here."

Tom looked pleased. "Good. Now eat."

Harry did so, tucking into the delicious spread in front of him. There was chicken with raspberry sauce and crisp green vegetables and puddings and fruits and chocolate cake for dessert. Cold, tangy orange liquid filled the goblet in front of him, and Tom said that it was pumpkin juice.

It was the best meal he'd had in his life, and by the time he was finished, Harry admitted to himself that he'd be glad to stay with Tom even if he _were _evil, if only so he could eat like that even every once in a while.

"Before you go," said Tom as Harry got up to head to bed, "there is one last thing I must tell you, and I'm afraid it isn't something you'll want to here."

Harry froze at the other man's tone. "What is it?"

"I must admit that the only reason I'm sharing this at all is so that the secret cannot be used against me later; I have no doubt that you'd find out soon enough, and so I thought it best to get it out of the way immediately. I believe now that you are settled and aware of what I can offer you, you will not react to what I am about to tell you in _too _foolish a manner."

"Tom…" said Harry nervously.

"Your Muggle relatives told you that your parents died in a car crash," Tom cut in, his expression unreadable.

Harry's heart thudded against his chest. "Didn't they?"

"No. They died as… I suppose heroes would not be inaccurate," said Tom. He was talking to Harry as though he were a wounded animal that might lash out at any second, and that only put him more on edge. "They were killed in the last war. Their son had been prophesied as the one with the power to vanquish Lord Voldemort, and so he went after the boy. The Potters stood up to him, and he killed them for it."

Harry almost feel out of his chair in his haste to distance himself from Tom. "He? _You. _You said, it was you-"

"I _said_," Tom interrupted lowly, "that if there's one thing you understand about me, it is that I am _not _him. He was a shadow of the worst part of me, his soul mangled beyond recognition, his humanity nonexistent. I am not a good person, Harry Potter. I have the capacity to kill without regret. But I do not have his wanton disregard for life, nor his senseless cruelty. _I _am not the one who murdered them."

But Harry was too shocked to truly listen. Uncertainty coursing through him, he fled to his room, where he buried his face in his beautiful bed and cried. Whether it was from relief that his parents had died bravely, or horror that his rescuer had been the one to kill them, he wasn't entirely sure. Perhaps, it was both.

Either way, he was relieved when neither Missy nor Tom appeared, and he was allowed privacy to allow the reality of the truth to sink in.

…

…

…

**Author's Note: **

**First of all, I got enough requests for Tom's thoughts to be put up that I didn't send it out privately; I'm going to attach the text to the end of this chapter, after the AN. I never got around to review replies anyway, although I've been trying to get into the habit of doing so. For last chapter, I'll reply to the comments that had specific content to address here. **

**teedub: I actually dawdled over that particular paragraph quite a bit, but I didn't change it because parts of it needed to be flip-floppy. Tom needs Harry alive to finish Voldemort off because he's wary about challenging the prophecy; he also reluctantly allows that he'd rather Harry not die. It's a balance between logic and the slight respect he has for Harry. As for raising him for slaughter (which I think is what made it seem muddled?)—Tom is following Dumbledore's logic. Dumbledore claimed to have known that by willingly seeking death, Harry would save his own life; Tom recognizes this as well. "… he also needed to ensure that the boy had enough strength of character to face down Voldemort with every intention of dying; it was the only way to get rid of the Horcrux inside him without risking his life or sanity." Harry dying isn't his intention, although he needs Harry to be willing to do so at some point. Hopefully that offers at least some clarification. **

**mh21- There won't be any Dumbledore bashing here; Harry's perspective will put him in a negative light at first, but I intend he and Tom to have at least a fair amount of interaction by the second year, and I'm planning to have too much fun with that to dumb him down. As for Hermione stories—I've been tossing ideas for one around for a while, but haven't settled on anything yet. She'll have a relatively large role in this fic, though. **

**Just a general thanks to everyone else, and I'll try to update again in around a week. **

**Now, here's a brief (poorly edited) Voldemort/Tom POV from the future: **

He stood looking at the blackened landscape, his face a mask of cold indifference that belied the grim depression festering underneath. As intelligent as he has always prided himself on being (and on certain occasions, he's even claimed omniscience), he hadn't predicted this, though he very clearly should have. Anyone with half a brain _would _have.

It'd all gone almost… logically, he saw with perspective. The destruction, the cessation of advancement. The eventual regression into a society that differed only slightly from the Middle Ages. Gray-faced Muggles who labored as listless slaves, who were too uneducated to think for themselves. Purebloods who'd inbred themselves into retardation. There were no half-bloods or Muggleborns. Mating with Muggles had been outlawed years ago, and if there were any wizarding children among the enslaved masses, there was no way for him to pick them out; there were no men to do the job, let alone a system to make it efficient.

There weren't enough men for anything anymore, nor any systems in place at all; his bureaucracy was nonexistent_. _

Immortality was a similar disappointment. He wanted to die, but was too frightened to kill himself. He was not a religious man (then again, no one was religious anymore; he'd long made it clear that only _he _was to be worshipped), but he did acknowledge the slight possibility of an afterlife. If the possibility had any truth to it at all, he had no doubt that death would only make things worse for him—he'd be banished to hell, or the appropriate equivalent. If there were no hell, perhaps reality would create one especially for him.

In the case that there was no afterlife, and he simply ceased to be… well, he wasn't certain anymore whether that would be a relief, or whether the idea of _not existing _was worse than eternal suffering.

"This was such a waste," he murmured, crimson eyes fixated on the ugliness of the landscape that surrounded him. Everything was ugly now. Dark Magic had seeped into things that had once been beautiful and _tainted_ them. The sky was always gray, the ground clear of all but the hardiest vegetation.

Tom (for too much time with his thoughts had led him to see that the person he'd been was truly better than the monster he'd become, and in the privacy of his mind, he liked to pretend that there was still some of that person left) had long since realized that he missed sunny days and green trees and chirping birds. He missed _all of it. _He'd enjoyed the world as it had been, had devoured the literature (he'd burned any texts that reminded him of his humanity before he realized how precious humanity was), and relished the food, and savored the sheer magnificence of everything from Muggle inventions to the challenge of a good duel to something so simple as listening to music.

He simply hadn't realized it at the time. _Couldn't _realize it in full now, not with his soul as it was. The half-life he lived only allowed him to know that he was missing something, not to really comprehend what it was that wasn't there.

He _hated it. _

And what Lord Voldemort hated, he changed.


	3. Answers and Questions

Tom would not admit it to himself, but he was relieved when Missy escorted a willing Harry to lunch the next morning. The boy's eyes were ringed with dark circles and his cheeks stained with tears, but his expression was determined.

"You say that you're not Lord Voldemort, but it sounds like he's the same person you _used to _be. Explain."

Tom's brows rose at the blatant order, but the situation was delicate enough that he did not chastise the child.

"I told you yesterday that I once feared death. I wished to become immortal, and the only way I found to do so was to create Horcruxes. Horcruxes are… the darkest sort of magic. Making one requires a person to tear their soul in two and place one half in another object, thereby preserving it and allowing the person's essence to live on after natural death."

Harry looked horrified. "That's…"

"It's perverse," said Tom. "I recognize that now. At the time, I longed so strongly for immortality that I was willing to ignore the consequences of such an act. I made not one Horcrux, but six. At my worst, my soul was split into seven parts, with only one of those pieces still residing in my body. I was a fraction of who I once was—a fraction that had been tainted and corrupted by dark magic, twisted with ruthlessness and run through with more hatred than you could possibly fathom."

The boy swallowed heavily. "And n-now? How are you…"

"How am I myself once more?" He smirked. "I've already told you that Lord Voldemort's actions had made me miserable, and that he'd gone back in time in order to ensure that he was never allowed to achieve world domination. Once back, he located those of his Horcruxes that he could, and restored as many pieces of his—no, of _my_—soul that he could recover. There are several that I haven't yet been able to recover, but the process of reabsorbing Horcruxes is a powerful one, and its potency comes as much from the conviction needed to do so as it does from the act itself. I intend to search for the others when possible, but even the action I have taken thus far has had a profound affect on me. I have begun to once more feel like a man than a monster. Do you understand?"

Harry nodded. "I think so, sir. He's like you, but with anything even a little bit good torn away. So it isn't really you at all. Just an awful, ugly piece of you."

"That's largely correct," said Tom.

Harry fidgeted. "But… since you used to be him, you do know why he killed my parents. Don't you?"

Tom offered a small sigh, but he did tell Harry about the prophecy and how Voldemort assumed it was about Harry. He said that he'd chased the Potters for some time before Peter Pettigrew betrayed them, at which point he went straight to their place of residence with plans to kill Harry himself.

"Your father stood up to him first, but it was your mother's bravery that saved your life. From what I've gathered, by giving her life for you, she cast the strongest form of protective magic. When Voldemort attempted to kill you, that magic caused his curse to rebound back at him. That is why he lost the war, and it is why you are still alive."

"But he isn't gone forever. He'll come back, because of the Horcruxes."

Tom was impressed that Harry realized it so quickly.

"Yes. There are two that are currently… beyond my reach, and a third he has yet to make when his power is restored."

Harry frowned. "Couldn't you keep him from coming back to power in the first place?"

"I won't even try," said Tom. "Realism tells me his resurrection is inevitable, and logic says I should not alter the past to the extent where events play out in a significantly different manner than they did the first time. It will make the process of his defeat longer, but at this point, I know what he and his followers have planned, how they will react to things, and what needs to be done to defeat them. If I make too many changes too early, I won't have that advantage."

Harry seemed to see the logic in this, as he did not argue.

"And… I have something to do with this," said Harry slowly. "He'll come after me, won't he? Because I beat him that once."

Tom sighed. "I won't tell you everything, but yes. You will play an important role. It is part of the reason you are here. I want you to be ready to handle the things you are destined to face."

Harry took a shaky breath. "And the other part?"

Now, he allowed his voice to soften. "You're meant for great things, Harry. As much as my other self hated you, he also held you in a certain esteem… He even saw himself in you, as distasteful a concept as I'm sure you find the notion. I don't view you in quite the same way, but there is… interest there, and I found it disgraceful that someone with your potential would have to grow up as you have so far. I wanted to take you away from that."

Harry seemed to like this reason better than the other one, but then again, Tom could hardly blame him. "Oh." He bit his lip. "And you're sure that you've got this right? That it's _me _you want? I've never done anything great, and I'm certainly not special."

"I beg to differ," said Tom simply. He took a drink of water and eyed Harry. "Any other questions?"

"Oh, loads," he said, before he quickly corrected, "I mean, yes, sir. I have questions."

Tom waved a flippant hand.

"Politeness is a must, and I do prefer you be respectful when we're in public, but you need not bother with formalities in situations such as this. I have done poorly at implying it, but I intend for our relationship to become… familial in nature, if that is not disagreeable to you."

"I… I think that might be alright," said Harry hesitantly, looking every bit as unsure as he sounded.

"I'm not asking you to decide at this precise moment. Simply remain open to the possibility," said Tom. "It's nothing to worry yourself over. Now, as for those questions… You may start whenever you please. In fact, it's best you learn as much as you can as soon as possible, as I intend to begin giving you formal lessons once I believe you have a firm enough understanding of the wizarding world. Normally, underage wizards cannot use magic outside of Hogwarts, but the manor has been warded to avoid such restrictions. I have numerous wands that should be safe for you to use without drawing attention to yourself."

Harry's eyes widened. "I'm going to do magic _already_? And what's Hogwarts? And-"

Tom couldn't help the chuckle that fell from his lips. He'd never seen the Boy-Who-Lived like this, and there was something oddly endearing about it. He vaguely remembered finding a small snake during the summer after his first year and deciding to keep it as a pet. The odd affection he felt at Harry's enthusiasm was similar to that he'd entertained for the snake, yet at the same time, the feeling was entirely different. He did not quite understand it, but as the sensation wasn't an unpleasant one, he did nothing to quell it.

"One at a time, child," said Tom, allowing a small sliver of regard to seep through into his voice.

Harry quickly shut his mouth and asked carefully, "_Am _I going to start doing magic?"

Tom leaned back in his chair, settling in for a long question-answer session. Then, his dark eyes glimmering with passion, he began to speak.

…

Harry and Tom talked late into the afternoon. After getting the ugliest questions out of the way, their conversation became a lot more interesting. Tom told Harry all about the magical world. He explained about Hogwarts and the houses (mentioning that he'd be in Slytherin—was the _Heir of Slytherin_—but that the Harry he'd known had been a Gryffindor and had admittedly done well there), and about Diagon Alley and Quidditch and the different types of spells he could learn and potions he could make. Harry listened with rapture as Tom painted a picture of a world that Harry couldn't have imagined even in his most wonderful dreams—a world that he himself was _part of. _

He then gave Harry a list of books that he thought would be useful for him to read, most of them about magical culture and the history of the wizarding world. _Hogwarts, a History _was underlined several times, as were a handful of texts that Tom said would explain the basics of each type of magic.

"People will expect great things from you," said Tom, but in a way that made it sound like a good thing more than something to be concerned about. "I am going to make sure that you do not only meet those expectations, but exceed them. The man you grow into _almost_ defeated the greatest dark wizard of all time, and he was untrained. If you fulfill your potential, I have no doubt that you will become one of the greatest wizards to ever live." Harry opened his mouth, but Tom foresaw what he was going to say and added, "And do not tell me that you are 'just Harry.' I will not have you feeling entitled to anything, but I will also not accept such insecurity."

"Yes, sir."

Tom smirked, but Harry knew wasn't necessarily mocking or cruel. He'd realized already that Tom never _really _smiled. There was always something in the twist of his lips and glint of his eyes that said he was more entertained or pleased than genuinely happy. It was somewhat unsettling, but Harry found that he didn't entirely mind; he had a gut feeling that pleasing Tom Riddle was much more challenging than prompting sincere happiness from anyone else.

"Very good. Now, I want you to start reading those books. When you're finished, we can begin learning wand work and brewing basic potions. As you become more accustomed to magic and begin to determine what you like and dislike, I'll allow you to personally tailor your education. Maybe in the near future, I can even take you to Diagon Alley and you can pick out a book or two from Flourish and Blotts."

Harry had seen all the books that Tom had—Missy had shown him the library the evening before—but he had a feeling that the idea of going to Diagon Alley to buy books was supposed to motivate him to work harder. Harry admitted that it was very good motivator; he wanted to see the place Tom had described in such detail for himself.

"Okay," said Harry, smiling a little. He grabbed the list and started for the door only remembering at the last second to call, "Thanks, Tom!" before he left the room.

When he glanced over his shoulder as he shut the door, Harry couldn't help but smile when he caught the former Dark Lord staring after him, looking as though he had no idea what to think of the boy he'd brought into his home. Harry could more than sympathize. He found that he didn't really know what to think of Tom either.

Even so, he felt hopeful for the first time he could ever remember, and truly, that was more than he'd ever dared to ask for.

…

Albus Dumbledore sat at the desk in his office, head bowed with shame. An uncomfortable-looking Arabella Figg was fidgeting in the seat across from him, while Minerva McGonagall and Severus Snape both stared darkly at the man that they'd previously believed all but infallible.

"He _disappeared_."

"Mrs. Dursley said that some powerful force shook her house. Her husband went to investigate, but did not come back. When she went to see what'd happened, he was unconscious, and the boy was gone."

"And Vernon…"

"Remembered none of it," said Mrs. Figg. She cleared her throat. "Perhaps most curiously, there was no sign of struggle on Harry's part. Mrs. Dursley tells me that the boy's bookbag was gone, as were his clothes and several of his toys. He went willingly."

"He would have had to," murmured Albus. "No one who wished to harm him could have gotten into the home, so much as forcefully removed him from it." He sighed. "That does not reassure me. Say a Death Eater took him, not to harm him, but to raise as a new Dark Lord."

Severus shook his head. "That is not possible, Albus. I would have heard something of it. I don't know of any Death Eater who would have done anything of the sort without notifying the others; they're hardly a covert group."

"They wouldn't have known where to find him anyway," said McGonagall. Her voice was tight. "I have half a mind to believe that the boy simply ran away. His things were in a _cupboard_, Albus! I told you they were the worst sort of people—they hardly care that he's missing for Merlin's sake!—but you insisted that it was the only place he would be safe. Safe from Death Eaters, perhaps, but clearly not from his own relatives!"

Albus did not reply to her reprimand. He could see now that he'd clearly misjudged the situation. "I do not believe he ran away, Minerva. If that were the case, we would have been able to trace him; alas, he's been taken somewhere with too strong of wards to see through easily."

"Y-you're sure he's not…" Mrs. Figg trailed off with a shaking voice, clearly not wanting to believe the worst.

"We're sure," said Albus comfortingly. "The tracking charm would still work in that case. It would simply lead us to the body."

They all fell silent, none of them sure of what to say.

Finally, Severus spoke. "You said you would keep the child safe."

Albus sighed heavily. "I did. But I was foolish, and now it is out of my hands. Let us just pray that whoever has young Harry does not wish to do him harm. I'm afraid there is nothing else for it at the moment. I cannot notify the Aurors of the situation or else news of Harry's disappearance might leak; the most I can do is ask you, Severus, to keep an ear open for anything that might suggest he's been taken by Death Eaters."

"That is hardly enough."

Albus closed his eyes. "I agree. But there's nothing more to be done. If it is any reassurance, I suppose we will learn of his fate in two years, when he receives his letter for Hogwarts."

"A lot can happen in two years," snapped Minerva.

The Headmaster pursed his lips and looked at her sadly. "I know."

…

…

**A/N: **

**Bah. These chapters are sort of short and staggered to start, but I promise they do get a little longer, and at the very least more entertaining as the story goes on. This is the last 'set up' chapter, so the real stuff will begin soon enough. Not much to say besides that, although I do want to thank those of you who've reviewed. Any comments or suggestions are always taken into account and appreciated, so please take the time to leave at least a 'liked it' or 'hated it' before you go. **

**Thanks, and hopefully I'll get the next chapter up a bit more quickly. **


	4. A Difference of Two Years

The next months flew by quickly. Harry took little time to settle into his new life, embracing it with a gusto that reminded Tom uncomfortably of his own first months in the wizarding world. He read every book Tom told him to read, never once complaining when he was asked to review certain passages when he didn't entirely understand the material. He wrote essays when Tom asked him to do so, even acquiescing to writing lessons when it became apparent that he had little idea how to use a quill, and he listened intently each and every time that Tom took it upon himself to lecture, taking detailed notes and looking them over until he could've recited the information backwards.

Apart from giving the boy a strong foundation in magical study, Tom also made sure the child was situated in other matters. Harry had a handful of medical problems that were drearily similar to the ones Tom had faced at the orphanage, malnutrition being the most prominent. While Tom had little idea how to prompt a child into eating well, the house elves took it upon themselves to ensure that Harry not only had a balanced diet, but that he consumed everything that was put in front of him. Tom had grown accustomed to snacks appearing in the middle of study sessions or lectures and magically scooting closer to Harry, butting against his arm until the boy finally started eating.

There was also the matter of his eyesight. While poor vision was rarer amongst wizards than Muggles, James Potter was proof that the problem did crop up in magical children (Tom could still remember, just barely, the man's slack face peering up at him, cracked glasses on the floor next to his head, body angled protectively in front of the staircase that led to his wife and son), and his child had unfortunately inherited the condition. That left Tom to figure out what to do about it. Glasses were impractical and could be lost or shattered, but magical solutions were inadvisable on children with still-changing vision. After some deliberation, Tom put several glamours on the boy and himself and took Harry to a magical optometrist in Diagon Alley to get fitted for contacts.

That in itself had been an experience. Tom recalled his own first venture into the magical world and remembered being disgusted at the awe and enthusiasm he hadn't been able to help but feel; he'd regretted succumbing to the childish emotions and so had taken care to comport himself twice as dourly as usual.

Harry was not nearly so determined to appear stoic, and his emotions showed on every inch of his face.

"_This _is Diagon Alley?" he blurted, eyes darting back and forth and taking in the numerous shops and vendors, flitting over the colorful witches and wizards that surrounded them.

"Indeed it is," said Tom smoothly. Harry eyed him, as though unable to believe that Tom could be so composed about everything, but the child had already grown used to such cool reactions and merely shrugged it off, not letting the indifference affect his mood.

"C-can we maybe, um… if we have time… I mean to say, is there any chance we could stay for a bit after we see the eye person? Not more than a minute. I just want to look in some of the windows, and-"

Tom held up a hand, and Harry stopped talking instantly. His shoulders slumped, making it was apparent that he expected a negative response.

Tom bit back a wave of irritation- for Merlin's sake, the boy acted as though _window shopping _were a privilege (he really, _really _wished he would have simply done away with those filthy Muggles)-and said slowly, "I didn't expect your first trip to Diagon Alley to be limited to a single stop, Harry. I was rather expecting to spend the day reflecting on the misery of my life while you purchased inanities such as _toys _and _quidditch supplies_." He smirked as Harry's head jerked up, eyes widening. He regarded Tom with a look of awe every bit as potent as the one that'd crossed his face upon entering the alley.

"B-but-" Harry shook his head, shoulders slumping once more. "Tom, I can't afford any of this. You saw how it was with the Dursleys. I don't-"

"You're my ward now," Tom cut in, voice booking no room for argument. "That means it is _my _responsibility to ensure that you are properly taken care of. Given that you are a child, part of that includes purchasing a certain amount of superfluous nonsense. Unless you are insinuating that I cannot properly fulfil my responsibilities, you have no reason to worry about cost."

Harry blinked, jaw dropping slightly as Tom's words sunk in. "So I c-can buy a toy?"

"You have numerous ones in your room," Tom reminded him. "Where did you think those came from?"

"Well…" He trailed off, obviously struggling to voice his thoughts. "This is _different. _I've never picked out anything for myself before. Whenever I went shopping with the Dursleys, I followed Dudley and carried his things. If I stared at something too long, Aunt Petunia snapped at me for being ungrateful for what I had, and… Tom?"

Harry was peering at him with startled green eyes, concern evident on every inch of his face. Tom took a deep breath, struggling to compose himself. He could feel in the darkness welling up inside him that his eyes were likely flashing crimson, and he knew very well that his expression had long passed murderous.

"I am… fine," he murmured, voice strained. "I was merely considering that it's people like you're aunt and uncle who make me regret that I've vowed to behave with some degree of morality. I would dearly like to harm them."

This almost drove Harry to panic. "Oh, don't hurt them. I'm with you now, so it's all fine." He wrapped his arms around one of Tom's in something that was part embrace and part restraint. "You've already done more than enough, I promise."

Tom closed his eyes for a moment to recollect his self-control, even as he scolded himself for getting so angry over something so ridiculous—over something so totally unrelated to himself.

_Except it's more relevant to myself than it ought to be_, he thought darkly.

Voldemort had noticed certain parallels between Harry and himself before, but only now could Tom see how deeply that connection truly ran. If the inherent goodness that Harry so strongly displayed were to disappear, he would be a near carbon copy of a young Tom Riddle.

A small, neglected orphan who wanted nothing more than to prove himself.

The similarities, which felt so much deeper than such a general description could encompass, made certain things involving Harry feel much more _personal _than they should have. And for all he told himself that empathizing was a necessary step in rebuilding his humanity, that it was _good for him_, he was also terribly out of his depth. He was reminded of the pain that came with using skelegrow. The bones returned eventually, but the process of restoring them was on the painful side of uncomfortable.

In Tom's opinion, the understanding he'd begun to feel for Harry's situation was much more unpleasant even than growing bones. Never had he wanted to punish someone for making someone else suffer, but he could still remember all too well how the older kids in Slytherin had rubbed their wealth in Tom's face (until they became too afraid to do so), how wealthy citizens in Muggle London had turned their nose down at him when he passed them in the streets, and as angry as he'd been at them then, he was equally as furious with the Dursleys for showing Harry Potter the same brand of disdain.

He had no idea what to make of it, and that frightened him more than he'd been frightened of anything in a very long time.

"Do not worry, child," said Tom after a moment. His voice felt hollow, and he took care to speak with more composure when he added hesitantly, "I have already decided not to punish your relatives; it would be too tempting to kill them outright, and I am desperately trying to get over such impulses." He casually disentangled his arm from the boy's, wincing when Harry latched onto his hand instead—firmly enough that it would cause a scene to force him into letting go. He cleared his throat and began walking, "Now, come. We'll get your eyes fixed first, and then we can explore the rest of Diagon Alley. You may even buy as many absurd toys as you wish."

Harry beamed. "Thank you, Tom." His face fell, and he hesitated before adding, "But… could you help me find things that _aren't _absurd? I mean, maybe you could show me toys that'd be fun and useful. Or even just useful. So it's not such a waste."

Tom eyed Harry to determine whether he was serious—he very clearly was—and said approvingly, "Perhaps I could take the time to locate something suitable. But do remember that I am not interested in raising an automaton. You do not have to be opposed to senseless play simply because I am. In fact, I encourage you to engage in some amount of inanity, as you are young enough that such things are still important for character development."

"So…?"

"So for every useful item I select, you are to choose one that is entirely for your pleasure. Is this acceptable?"

Harry squeezed Tom's hand.

"It's brilliant. Thank you, Tom."

"Salazar help me," he muttered.

Harry only laughed—the first from him Tom had ever heard—and began walking with a bit more spring in his step.

Tom felt the most curious desire to smile at the boy, but he firmly pushed it back as they approached the magical optometrist.

…

It was not long after this outing to Diagon Alley that Tom began giving Harry practical lessons in magic. Because Harry was still too young to properly control any of the unregistered wands Tom had procured, he let the boy use his own wand instead; the cores were similar enough that Tom didn't imagine he'd have any trouble making it work.

Harry's mouth split into a grin when the wand released sparks after he gave it a wave.

A part of Tom wanted to erase the childish smile by informing the boy that the wand in his hand was responsible for the deaths of his parents and the scar on his forehead, but he was able to easily ignore the impulse. If Harry wasn't going to make the connection himself, it was best Tom not point it out.

"I really am a wizard," the boy said, sounding as though he hardly believed the fact.

"As I've told you dozens of times," Tom drawled. He shook his head, unable to be truly angry at Harry's childish enthusiasm. Using magic for the first time was one occasion that almost warranted it. "Now, enough senseless wand-waving. We're to start working on a simple levitation charm; it's easily mastered, with a brief incantation and little magical power required. From there, we'll move on—first to other basic charms, then to transfigurations and defense spells. Given the theory we have already covered, I expect rapid progress. Should you find yourself failing to master concepts as quickly as I dictate, you will study in your free time to avoid falling behind. Is this clear?"

Harry's smile didn't falter; Tom could tell that he didn't see how working on magic could be anything less than utterly thrilling. While that attitude would probably wear off in time, it was reassuring to see for the moment.

"Perfectly, sir."

"Very good. Now, this particular charm requires little more than a simple swish and flick movement…"

He launched into a detailed explanation, going in-depth in the advanced theory of the spell even though he knew the boy could have completed it otherwise. The added background would help him master other similar charms later on.

Either way, Harry seemed enthralled even by the drier parts of the lesson, raptly taking in every word Tom spoke. Tom could hardly hold back a smirk as he registered just how ideal a pupil the child was shaping up to be.

…

In addition to magic, Tom spent a significant amount of time working with the boy in other areas. He bought the boy math and science texts to look over, but focused primarily on instilling in the child not only a love for reading, but an ingrained sense of which books he ought to spend the most time on. Muggle literature made up a large part of his curriculum, as did magical history—which was drastically more important than Hogwarts's choice of professor would have led one to believe—and a few prose pieces that were considered important to wizarding culture.

Tom also emphasized physical fitness, remembering all too well how _skinny _Harry had always been in the other timeline. Playing quidditch may have kept him fit, but he hadn't been especially strong, and as solid as his reflexes were, they were hardly exceptional. Not like they needed to be.

Understanding the importance of not working the child's body too hard quite _yet_, Tom slowly introduced him to exercise, starting with the basics of flying, and later taking the boy to see a Muggle fencing instructor (Tom had never learned, not having been in the position to do so for much of his early life and not caring enough to bother after that). When Harry proved well able to handle both sets of lessons, Tom also started training him specifically in movements that would come in handy while dueling. Short sprints and sharp changes of direction came first, followed by rolls and spins and pulling himself over obstacles. To Tom's irritation, the drills soon turned into something of a magical version of dodgeball, and Harry grew to look forward to the sessions as though he found them _fun_.

Tom found it even more annoying that he himself took a certain amount of pleasure in of the game as well, especially after Harry mastered the knockback jinx and shield charm and grew able to (weakly) fight back. There was even a measure of challenge in the activity, as Harry had an impressive talent at dodging blows and hiding himself the most ideal locations.

When Tom asked, Harry merely said that he'd learned how to avoid attacks so he could keep out of his cousin's way when Dudley decided to go Harry Hunting.

Tom thought of Billy Stubbs and a dead rabbit and briefly regretted that Harry had never been so cruel.

The regret went away quickly, of course. The fact was, Tom found Harry's decency refreshing. The boy was simply and deeply _good_, and seeing that on a regular basis—having that goodness directed at him—had soon become something of a pleasure to Tom. He could not quite understand it, but he liked it all the same.

Undoubtedly, it was this… appreciation for Harry's softer characteristics that led Tom to spend time with the boy even outside their numerous lessons.

They ate together at nearly every meal. When Tom finished reading the Daily Prophet (it was the only decent newspaper in the wizarding world, never mind that it was biased shit), he gave it to Harry and had him read as well. They then discussed any pertinent events within, Tom explaining anything Harry did not understand and sharing his opinions on the more political issues. Harry occasionally disagreed with what Tom said, and instead of arguing back as he was often tempted, Tom carefully laid out all of the facts and helped Harry craft his own arguments when he still couldn't bring himself to side with Tom.

They also sat together in Tom's library in the evenings. Oftentimes, Harry studied. Sometimes he read, and not infrequently, he prompted Tom into conversation. Tom generally tried to keep the subject matter comfortably distant, but sometimes Harry prodded him into sharing brief snatches of personal information.

"What was your family like?" Harry asked one evening, and Tom had nearly dropped the book he was reading. It was the first time the child had brought up something directly relating to Tom, and the question was decidedly unexpected.

"I had no family," said Tom.

Harry blinked. "But you can't _not _have a family. Even if you didn't know them, your parents are still your parents, and anyway, someone had to have raised you."

It was a testament to his growing fondness for the child that Tom was more irritated than angry by the line of questioning.

The fact that he responded to the inquiry at all was even more telling.

"My mother was a poor, miserable excuse for a witch," Tom said briskly. "She descended from Salazar Slytherin himself-" Harry's eyes widened—he'd doubtlessly come across the name in his studies—but he said nothing as Tom continued speaking, "-but inbreeding and circumstance had left her talentless and pathetic. She fell in love with a wealthy Muggle. He held no affection for her, so she fed him a love potion and forced him into marriage."

"That's _awful_," Harry cut in.

Tom snorted. "From what I've heard, no man would have gone near her otherwise. She was nothing, but was too stupid to realize her own lack of worth. After she fell pregnant with me, she believed that Tom Senior would stay with her for _my _sake and quit feeding him the potion. Naturally, he left. This devastated her so deeply that she survived only long enough to give birth. She then lost the will to live entirely. I was left at an orphanage, where I grew up penniless and miserable." He looked at Harry evenly. "_Now_, tell me that I have family."

Harry smiled sadly. "Well… I guess you didn't. Really, that sounds even worse than what happened to me. I mean, at least I know that my parents loved me. But if it makes you feel better, well, I'm kind of your family now, aren't I?"

Tom sighed heavily.

"I suppose so."

Harry tilted his head, then ventured, "I mean, you're raising me and spending a lot of time helping me, and you really have been very kind. If you look at it a certain way, it's almost like... Well, it's almost like you're my father."

Tom almost fell out of his chair. "_Father?" _he repeated incredulously, his ever-present mask falling away briefly in his shock. "I-I have little idea what being a father entails, as I obviously didn't have one and hardly had interest in becoming one, but I can _certainly _assure you that I am hardly qualified."

Harry tilted his head. "I think you're doing a good job. Besides, didn't you say that you thought we were going to be like family? You know, way back when we first met?"

"But _that _isn't what I met," said Tom. "I don't know how to _care_. Whatever your expectations are, I'll never come anywhere near them."

"Just don't leave," Harry said. He have Tom his most steely expression, already aware that such looks were much more effective than pouting or shows of vulnerability. "All you have to do is not leave, and it will be enough."

Tom sighed. "I will… not tell you not to view me as your father. I suppose I might even find the notion flattering. But do not expect overt affection from me."

And that was that. Things went on largely as they had leading up until that point, with the notable exception that Harry started referring to Tom as 'Father.' He never ventured to the more familiar 'Dad,' and Tom never deigned to call the boy his son, but their relationship did occasionally creep into territory where it may not have been inappropriate for them to do so. More than once, Tom found himself putting a congratulatory hand on the boy's shoulder when he did well in lessons, or offering a reassuring word when he struggled. The child infrequently had nightmares (primarily of his parents' death), and Tom never failed to venture into his room and sit by his best, always requesting that Missy bring the boy chamomile tea to help him settle down. Tom taught him how to play chess and they challenged one another every now and then, and once or twice Tom reluctantly took up a broomstick and passed a quaffle back and forth if the child had done something to earn such a concession.

They even celebrated Christmas and birthdays, and on Halloweens, Tom took Harry to his parents' grave to give the child the chance to mourn.

Such absurdities went against his very nature, did funny things to his shriveled heart, but gradually they became easier, until he no longer had to force himself into behaving as he knew he ought.

While he never would have admitted it, not even to himself, somewhere between stealing the boy from the Dursleys and Harry Potter's eleventh birthday, Tom began to genuinely care for the child (in the very manner in which he said he _couldn't), _and the title of father had become much more than merely a mode of address.

…

Tom sometimes played a game with him (or rather, Harry considered it a game, although it really wasn't much fun at all). It had started after he first learned Occlumency, when Tom was trying to prepare him for the reality that yes, there were at least two professors at Hogwarts who might try to look into his head, and _no_, they would not give him the least bit of warning before doing so.

Harry narrowed his eyes as he glanced up from his copy of _Crime and Punishment_—he and Tom were focusing on Muggle literature in their lessons, and his father had him scheduled to finish another half dozen thick volumes before September first, so he didn't appreciate any interruptions of his reading time—and forcibly shut his mind to the man's subtle intrusion.

"I'm busy, father."

Tom snorted. "You've gotten good enough that expending the energy to keep me out of your head is hardly a distraction," he said. He took a seat next to Harry. Their arms brushed slightly, and Harry leaned into the other man's warmth. Tom wasn't a very tactile person, but he didn't shrink away from Harry either, and that was plenty good enough. After nine years of no human touch besides the occasional shove from Vernon or punch from Dudley, even little bits of contact were appreciated. "In any case," Tom went on, "I wish to make sure you're ready for Hogwarts. It's only a month before you go."

Harry was well aware of this. He'd gotten his letter yesterday, addressed to _The Manor on the Hill._

Tom had laughed at the effect his wards had on confusing even the magic in the addressing system; he'd known that Dumbledore would have been watching to see what'd become of Harry, and was sure that the Headmaster was grossly disappointed in the ambiguity of the address.

"You know that they won't get anything from me," said Harry. "You're a better Legillimens than either of them, and I handle you just fine." Tom gave him a look, and he added, "I _will _be on my guard, but I won't let your secret out. You know that."

He sighed. "I do, I suppose. I'm merely wary."

"You'd hate for your carefully laid plans to go to waste?" asked Harry, raising a brow.

Tom snorted. "I'd hate to lose you," he said baldly, then seemed to realize everything that was implied in those words and hastily cleared his throat. "In any case, I did not pester you solely to poke around in your head. I was wondering if you wished to go to Diagon Alley today. You need to pick up your things."

Harry straightened. "When you say go to Diagon Alley…"

"I will not make you wear a disguise. I shall have to wear a glamour, but I believe it is now safe for you to show your face."

Harry's lips turned up in a grin; from his first trip to Diagon Alley on, he'd had to wear layers of glamours to keep others from recognizing him. On top of that, he hadn't been able to stray more than a few feet from Tom in case something happened and they needed to apparate away. He also hadn't been allowed to converse with anyone for more than several minutes at time. Now, he could be himself and didn't have to worry about following so many rules.

"Just let me get my cloak," said Harry quickly, shutting the book and hopping to his feet.

He didn't need to look back to feel Tom shaking his head bemusedly behind him.

…

Unlike past trips to Diagon Alley, when Harry and Tom showed up at the Leaky Cauldron, people turned to stare. Several came up to him and shook his hand, thanking him profusely. Not for the first time, Harry was glad that Tom had taken him from the Dursleys; he had a feeling that if he'd entered the wizarding world without having any idea _why _people were thanking him, he would have been overwhelmed at best and downright frightened at worst.

As it was, he pasted a smile on his face—as though he weren't put out that these people were thanking him for something that his _mother _had given her life to do—and politely returned the handshakes. After all, he knew what Voldemort had done in the last war, and couldn't blame these people for being grateful that he'd played any part at all in stopping him.

It wasn't until a young man in a turban came up to Harry and started to speak that Tom lost his patience. Putting a hand on Harry's shoulder, he murmured, "I believe it's time we get going," and abruptly left the tavern.

Harry frowned, but trailed after his father. He opened his mouth several times to ask what had caused him to want to slip off so suddenly, but he shot Harry ugly looks every time he tried to speak, only allowing him to open his mouth when they were in a relatively empty part of Diagon Alley.

"What was that about?"

"That man was one of Voldemort's followers," said Tom simply. "I didn't want him getting too close."

Harry blinked, thinking back to the pale, harmless-looking man with the trembling hands. "_Him. _What in Merlin's name was Voldemort doing recruiting _him?"_

Tom rolled his eyes. "Think about it, Harry."

He scratched at the back of his head. "Ah. It's an act, isn't it? He's pretending to be weak so no one will suspect him of anything"

"Precisely. You'll find that usually those who appear most harmless are in some way more dangerous than you could possibly expect, and that people who make a point of acting dangerous only do so as an act, to cover up weaknesses or what they believe to be flaws in their personality."

Harry nodded, taking that in. "That makes sense. I guess I'll keep an eye out for the man in the turban then." He wrinkled his nose. "That's profiling, you know. Recruiting a man who wears a turban. It's stereotypical."

Tom looked like he was biting back a laugh. "He didn't wear one when Voldemort recruited him."

"So he decided that if he's going to be a Death Eater terrorist, wearing a turban would be appropriate?"

"What if I told you that this was something it would do you better to figure out by yourself?"

"I would ask why it matters," said Harry. He frowned. "And then I would realize that you wouldn't bother telling me any of this if it _didn't _matter, meaning that there's something important about the fact that the man is wearing a turban, and that because it's important, things are likely are going to play out in a way that'll give me my answer eventually."

Tom bowed his head in confirmation. "Good. Any more questions?"

"Can we go to Flourish and Blotts?"

"If you go to Flourish and Blotts," said Tom, "you won't get anything done elsewhere. We shall save that for last. At the moment, I think it best that you go to Madam Malkin's to get fit for robes. I will purchase your things at the Apothecary. From there, we can meet at Olivander's, and then pick up your books _after_."

Harry wanted to argue, but he recognized that Tom was right; if he wanted to take his time at the bookshop without worrying about getting the rest of his shopping done, he ought to save it for last.

"Alright. I suppose I will see you soon."

Tom started off, then stopped abruptly before departing. "Harry?"

"Yes?"

"Please… don't get into trouble."

Something warm bubbled in his chest, as it did whenever Tom did little things that showed he cared—that Harry was more to him than someone to keep his other self's future from going to hell.

"I won't," said Harry. "I promise."

…

It was soon after that Harry entered Madam Malkin's to get his uniform. He'd never been in that particular shop before, as Tom had his clothes custom tailored by one of the more skilled house elves—Tom said that if Harry were going to consider himself Tom's son, that made him the heir of the Heir of Slytherin, and as such he ought to dress like it—but he found himself largely uninterested in examining the merchandise. For all the emphasis Tom placed on such things- more so because he knew the role it played in perception than that he actually cared- Harry had never had much interest in clothing.

He was infinitely more intrigued by the small blond boy standing on a pedestal and being tailored for his own set of robes.

"Hello," said the boy. "Hogwarts too?" He had a conceited, drawling voice that was somehow both grating and pleasant to listen to.

Harry nodded. "Yes. My first year."

"It's mine as well." The boy offered him something that was a cross between a smirk and a smile—a very Tom-like expression. Harry had the distinct feeling that the blond had been raised in a Slytherin family, and was very likely destined for the house of snakes himself. "I'm Draco, by the way. Draco Malfoy."

Well, that explained the Slytherin behavior. Lucius Malfoy had been one of Voldemort's inner circle Death Eaters, only managing to escape Azkaban by claiming to have been under the Imperius curse. Tom said that the Wizengamot hadn't honestly believed him innocent, so much as they desperately wanted the money for the addition to Saint Mungo's that Lucius Malfoy had so generously elected to provide.

Given the relative smallness of the wizarding world, Harry imagined that Draco was either Lucius's son or nephew. He considered whether this was something he ought to be concerned about, but decided that it was a non-issue for the time being. Draco was eleven. It was doubtful that he knew his father had ever actually been a Death Eater, let alone that he was already following in the man's footsteps. Harry would have to keep an eye on him, but any further suspicion would be ridiculous at that point.

"A pleasure." Harry hesitated, not wanting to deal with the inevitable reaction, but said anyway, "I'm Harry Potter."

Draco's eyes widened, and Madam Malkin gasped behind them. "_Thee _Harry Potter?" she asked. "Why, that's just-"

"It's brilliant," said Draco, giving Madam Malkin a nasty glare for eavesdropping. Harry shot her an apologetic smile as Draco went on. "My father mentioned that you'd be going to Hogwarts, but I hadn't expected to meet you quite yet."

"I don't see why people care so much about whether I'm going to Hogwarts, or where I've been, or what I do in my free time," said Harry casually. "I mean, it's not like I _remember _defeating Voldemort-"

"You said his _name_!" said Draco, sounding panicked. He looked around as though merely uttering the syllables would cause the man to appear.

Harry rolled his eyes. "It's really not a big deal. My guardian says one of the reasons Voldemort was so close to winning the last war was because people were so afraid of him. He didn't have to do anything, but they turned on themselves, made panicky decisions, and sold out their friends anyway. There's a point where fear stops being about common sense and starts leading to stupidity, and I think cringing from a name is well beyond that point."

Draco obviously had no idea what to think about his spiel. "You're the only person who thinks that way, you know."

"My guardian does also," said Harry. "And I've heard that Dumbledore says his name too, so it's not just me."

Draco raised a brow. "And who's your guardian?"

"Tom," said Harry simply. "So, what house do you figure you'll be in?"

It was obvious that Draco knew Harry was changing the subject on purpose, but he let it slide.

"Slytherin, definitely. My whole family has been sorted there." He eyed Harry. "And I imagine you're hoping for Gryffindor? That's the house your parents were in, anyway."

"Really I'm not. I don't think hoping for a house just because my parents were in it is all that great of an idea," said Harry. "Then again, maybe I only think that way because I'm an orphan. Obviously my parents haven't been around to influence me, so I doubt I'm all that much like either of them. In fact, I don't think I'd fit into Gryffindor at all. Of course, Tom says that I have a bit of a hero complex—I swear I wasn't planning to dive off the roof after the house elf; I _tripped_—but I'm not all that daring or impulsive, so I can't see myself being sorted there. Slytherin would suit me slightly better, but I must say that I'm hoping for Ravenclaw."

Draco frowned. "Why Ravenclaw?"

"It's neutral. I am really quite Slytherin, but if I go there, it'd send the wrong message. Slytherin has a bad reputation, and people who need to trust me would be wary to do so. I want to avoid Gryffindor for similar reasons—being placed there would alienate me from potential friends in Slytherin."

"But in Ravenclaw, you can interact with both houses and no one would question it," said Draco, looking impressed. "You've thought this through, Potter."

"I've had to. I may not have actually _done _anything, but people seem to think I'm a hero of sorts. That means everyone will be watching me, and I need to be careful about how I'm perceived." He shrugged. "Plus, I do like reading. If I'm in Ravenclaw, that'll be expected and no one would comment. In Gryffindor or Slytherin, I'd be considered an irritating overachiever."

Draco shook his head. "I don't know if the Hat would put you anywhere but Slytherin. You _think _like a Slytherin."

"That's Tom's influence. He's very cunning."

"Who _is _Tom?" demanded Draco, now looking a bit irritated.

"My guardian," said Harry, smirking when Draco's eyes narrowed. Madam Malkin patted him on the arm and told him he was done, and Harry glanced back at Draco. "Well, I've got to go, but I suppose I'll run into you later." He hesitated, then added, "You seem a decent sort. Do you want to sit together on the train?"

If anything, Draco looked even more frustrated. "I haven't told you anything about myself. What makes you think I'm 'decent'?"

Harry's lips twitched. "You ask questions like that—_smart _questions—and that shows you have sense, which seems a good thing to look for in a friend."

Harry's response was obviously a satisfactory one; pleased at the compliment, Draco smiled genuinely, revealing rows of small, straight white teeth, and said, "Alright, Potter. I'll see you on the platform."

Harry walked away with a smile on his face. Among other things, he did count Tom as his friend, but he'd never really had anyone his own age he got along with. He knew he'd have to be careful with Draco given who the boy's father was, but he was also very aware that Draco was young enough that his views weren't yet set in stone. He wasn't doomed to be a Death Eater, and so Harry had time to keep him from becoming an enemy.

He found himself hoping that he really could convince Draco to at least remain neutral. He hadn't been lying when he said that he appreciated the sense that the boy showed. He wasn't sure how many relatively intelligent people he would find at Hogwarts, and he didn't want to lose one of them to the dark side.

_Now you're picking friends based on intelligence_, thought Harry, brow furrowing. _You sound like Tom._

He sighed, recognizing that he was being quite picky for someone who'd never had much in the way of friends at all, but he quickly quit dwelling on the manner. Judging by how people had reacted to him so far, he wouldn't have any shortage of students clambering to get close to him. If anything, his problem wouldn't be finding people to talk to; it'd be weeding out the ones who were rational and trustworthy.

As odd as the thought was, Harry really wouldn't have to worry about making friends. He could _afford _to be picky.

…

Shortly after that, Harry met Tom at Olivander's, his lips turning up into a smile when he saw the beautiful snake curled up in a cage at Tom's feet.

"For your birthday," said Tom simply. "I considered an owl, but I have one that you may borrow, and the school has others you can use. I figured a snake would be more meaningful." He made a face. "Although, if I were you, I would take care to keep its presence hidden from the headmaster. She's a blue krait, and I cannot imagine he would approve of such a deadly creature living among his precious students"

"She's brilliant," said Harry honestly, walking over and kneeling in front of the cage. The snake perked up slightly, and Harry said, _"Hello. What is your name?" _

_"I have been called Maya." _She slithered forward, moving her head upwards so that she could study him more closely. _"You speak our language, as does our guardian. That is a rare talent." _

_"So I've been told_," Harry replied. _"But I do not expect your trust simply because I can speak your language. Tell me, if I were to offer you the freedom to venture from your cage, would you promise not to harm me?" _

The snake popped her head. _"I am not a fool, human. I am in a foreign land. I would not last long without your care." _She paused, but added, _"In any case, you have power, young one. I respect your strength.__"_

_"Good." _Harry reached out and subtly opened the cage, Tom wordlessly moving to cut him off from the view of others who might see what he was doing. Maya gave a hiss of approval and slithered up Harry's arm, sliding up his robes and curling herself comfortably near his neck. Harry's heart skipped a beat at having such a dangerous creature so close to the most sensitive part of him, but Maya merely chuckled as she relaxed against him. He could almost feel her contentment at his warmth.

Tom cocked a brow. "Everything settled?"

Harry smiled. "Yes. Thank you again for the gift. She's lovely." He reached up and gently stroked the snake's smooth scales, then straightened and nodded to Olivander's. "Now we get my wand?"

Tom nodded. "Now you get your wand."

…

It took Harry nearly a half hour to find a wand that suited him, and it was with some shock that he found out that the one he finally did was a brother to the one belonging to Lord Voldemort.

"And to mine," Tom reminded him as they left the shop.

"You knew our wands would have twin cores."

"It becomes significant eventually," he said, shrugging. "I would have told you had I not known you would find out soon enough."

"And _how _does it become significant?"

Tom smirked. "Start with looking up brother wands. Research further whatever you find there. I'm sure you'll come across something. Given, this does not become relevant for some while, so I would not waste your time with the matter quite yet."

Harry gritted his teeth, but his father had already explained numerous times that no, he could not tell Harry everything about his future—it held too much chance of changing it prematurely, and did Harry want to go into things blindly because Tom could no longer predict what would happen?

It was a valid point, but an irritating one at times. More than once, Harry had insisted that Tom simply find any remaining traces of Voldemort and get rid of them so that the bastard couldn't come back in the first place, but Tom would get a funny look on his face, then say that he couldn't do that because Harry was the one prophesied to defeat him, and he'd learned his lesson about trying to avert prophecies when he (as Voldemort) had gone after Harry as a baby.

"It'll come true either way, and often by attempting to avoid it, your fate is worse than it would have been originally," Tom always said.

It'd been months since Harry voiced protests on the subject. Like most things with Tom, he had no valid argument. His father always thought through things on all sides before Harry could wrap his head around a single point, and it meant he undoubtedly came up short in any disputes they had.

After they finished at Olivander's, Tom took (a by then irritable) Harry to Flourish and Blotts. Obtaining his school books helped cool him off about the wand situation, as did his purchase of numerous extra volumes on various types of battle magic, which was his favorite to learn and thereby what he'd need the most supplementary material for throughout the year; he was so far ahead in the area that he imagined that his DADA and charms classes would be all but useless to him.

Tom foresaw that as well, and when Harry mentioned his concern as they exited the shop, smirked and said, "Your head start is no reason not to take interest in your classes. In fact, I was considering purchasing tickets for a Tornado's match should you score as highly on your final exams as I had my first year. I imagine that should be more than enough incentive to put forth your maximum effort."

As Tom disliked Quidditch and had never taken Harry to a match, he was right about the incentive.

_Maybe, _thought Harry when they returned that evening, _I could look through my school books one or two more times... _

...

…

…

**Author's Note: **

**Firstly, I'll do review replies for Chapters 3 and 4 together since I'm updating so soon. As it so happens, I had free time on my hands and I really wanted to get this out, since it's the first chapter where anything really happens. **

**It's also enormously long, which I hadn't expected, but I figure most of you will see that as a somewhat good thing. **

**So... lots of information in this chapter, and I realize that I go through two years really quickly. That's mainly because there's only so much I could write. The most similar fics to this I've seen are Snape-Mentor stories, and while they can generally find a lot of gushiness to last between Harry's adoption and his arrival at Hogwarts, a) Tom is even less the type for gushy moments than Snape, b) I thought I could impart Tom and Harry's feelings well enough in one chapter not to have to go into detail. Their relationship will be sketched out more so in the future, and it will also _progress_, which it really wouldn't have if I'd written chapter after chapter about how grateful Harry is and how reluctantly caring Tom is. **

**Other than that, the two somewhat significant things in this chapter:**

**The first meeting with Draco-I enjoyed writing it, more so than I did in To Be a Hero. I honestly think I could construct a million first meeting Harry-Draco scenes and still have fun with them. I love the idea that these two kids meeting randomly in a shop and have this conversation that begins an enmity lasting for their entire seven years of schooling. And here, I get to make Draco more of a little shit than I can in my other story, which is a theme that will go far. I won't even say whether he'll be good or bad; I simply intend to have fun writing him.  
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**Then, the very cliche, 'Harry gets a pet snake.' And yes, it is cliche. I find that authors do give him that particular sort of pet for a reason, however. He can talk to it, it'd be useful in certain situations, and in this case, Tom Riddle is his guardian. I find a snake more likely than getting him say... a kitten. As for how he got an extremely venomous foreign snake in the middle of London, take into account that Tom probably doesn't shop in the most reputable locales. I'm thinking a shady dealer in Knockturn Alley. (Oh, and I'd seriously check out pictures of blue krait snakes if I were you; they're stunning). **

**Um, sorry for the babbling. But I hope that gives a bit of background on things, and please, please review. Especially this chapter, since it introduces so many new bits and pieces of my story. **

**Thanks**


	5. The Beginning

Upon concluding their trip to Diagon Alley, Tom and Harry returned home for another month before Harry was due to start at Hogwarts. Every now and then, Tom would ask him invasive questions that he was expected to answer in detail but without being too specific, and in just an enigmatic enough tone to let Dumbledore know that Harry was playing him (so as to keep the Headmaster from thinking that Harry was being forced to answer evasively due to threats), but not so enigmatically that it would make Dumbledore angry.

It was really very frustrating, especially as Tom was something of a perfectionist, but by the time September first rolled around, Harry was not only more than prepared for any classes he might take, but he was a near perfect liar courtesy of Tom Riddle's tutelage.

He wasn't sure whether he should be proud of the talent, but decided that any useful skill was something to be happy about having and left it at that.

Tom escorted Harry to Platform 9 ¾ himself, despite being a bit apprehensive that Dumbledore would have someone waiting to attempt to take apprehend him. He didn't _think _that the Headmaster would go that far, but trusted Dumbledore too little to say for certain. The only thing that kept him from staying home was his confidence in his ability to handle himself in any situations that might arise.

Harry was more nervous about something going wrong than Tom was, and was even _more_ nervous about leaving his father for more than a day or so for the first time in over two years, but excitement at the opportunity to go to the first place his father ever called him home easily outweighed his fears. Thus, it was with a smile on his face that he and Tom passed through the barrier and onto the platform.

Harry felt a bit juvenile for it, but he gawped as he took in the Hogwarts Express and all the people milling around it. The part of him that still marveled a little at the existence of magic couldn't help but think that it looked like something from a storybook.

"It's beautiful," said Harry.

Even Tom appeared moved; he was gazing at the train with a sort of fondness that looked almost physically painful to him, and it looked just a little like he was thinking something like, 'Why had I wanted to destroy this?'

Harry put a hand on Tom's arm and squeezed lightly, not saying anything but offering comfort all the same. His father turned and peered at him with unfathomable eyes, but nodded his thanks and led Harry closer to the Hogwarts Express.

"You'll remember what I've told you?" he asked.

"Yes, father."

"Do not worry too much over which house you're in. Ravenclaw would be most convenient, Hufflepuff would not be entirely a waste, and you would do well in either Gryffindor or Slytherin. It is not a question of where you are placed, but the effort you put into your schooling afterwards."

"They should've given you the Defense Against the Dark Arts position," Harry muttered, remembering Tom's story of how he'd been denied the job and cursed it afterwards. "You certainly _sound _like a teacher."

"It might be something I look into again in the future," said Tom absently, which was the first Harry had heard of it. "I could remove the curse and monitor your situation more closely. It's simply a question of whether it would change things too much, although I always could step aside to ensure that the professors who should be hired are. Perhaps I could move to a different subject when necessary..."

Harry blinked. "You can't drop that on me _now_. I have to leave soon, so I don't have time to convince you how brilliant of an idea it is."

Tom rolled his eyes. "You won't persuade me either way, child. It's merely a matter of whether I feel the reward is sufficient enough to undergo the risk. I'll think on it, and discuss the matter further with you this summer. For now, push it from your mind."

The Hogwarts Expressed whistled once, and Harry jumped. "Right. But this isn't the last we're talking about this." He offered Tom a smile. "I suppose I ought to be going now."

"Unless you want to miss the train," Tom said archly.

For a moment, they stood opposite one another in silence. Harry knew that Tom was waiting for him to simply say good-bye and leave, but he didn't have it in him to just _walk away _like that.

Quirking his lips into a smile that showed he knew exactly how little Tom would appreciate his next gesture, Harry reached out and wrapped his arms around his father's waist. Tom tensed for a brief moment but hesitantly hugged Harry back, the motion stilted if not somehow genuine in its awkwardness.

"You'd better write back when I send letters," said Harry, inhaling his father's scent. It was parchment and cologne and something deep and magical and _powerful _that Harry couldn't quite describe. "And _not _just with enigmatic statements about whatever it is I'm supposed to be doing. I want something at least a little personal. Not every letter, but every two or three. Alright?"

Tom snorted. "I believe you are stealing my lines, Harry."

Harry pinked. "Sorry, but you're… _you_. You know."

"Really? Tell me more."

"Father," Harry chided.

"Yes, yes. I will write you," he drawled. He sighed, but admitted (in a tone that suggested the words were being forced from his throat), "And I _will _miss you, child. I am glad you are going to Hogwarts, but your absence will not go unnoticed."

Harry smiled. "I'll miss you too." The train whistled again, and he sighed heavily before giving his father one last hug and heading towards the Hogwarts Express.

…

When Harry stumbled upon Draco's compartment, it was to find the blond sitting with two large boys who both looked rather like small trolls. He watched them for a moment—just long enough for the troll children to get to their feet with the obvious intention of scaring Harry from the compartment—before saying incredulously, "You have bodyguards."

Draco looked surprised at the phrasing. "I wouldn't call them that, but I suppose it's a fitting enough term. Their names are Crabbe and Goyle."

Harry blinked. "If not bodyguards, what _do _you consider them?"

That was apparently a stumper. Draco thought on it a moment, then said, "Allies. Acquaintances… Hmm, no, those terms imply equality." He shook his head. "I don't know if there's a word for it."

"So they're not your friends?"

"Of course not," said Draco.

Crabbe and Goyle looked like they had no idea what to say about the matter. Harry felt more than a little sorry for them.

"You should leave," Harry told them. "Draco and I wish to chat in private."

They looked to Draco. Draco shrugged. "I don't care either way. You're not needed at the moment. I suppose you could go."

"Alright then," said Goyle indifferently. "C'mon Crabbe."

And then they left.

Draco peered at Harry oddly. "What was that about?"

"You treat them like they're less than human beings. If other people see you acting like that towards them, then those other people will start treating them like they're less than human beings, and pretty soon that's what they'll start _acting like. _I'm giving them an opportunity to go out and make their own friends, who'll actually call them by their first names and hold real conversations with them and won't need to think for a minute to find a way around calling them his minions."

Draco blinked. "What is that obvious?"

"_Yes_," said Harry, lips pursed. He huffed. "You know, having minions at age eleven is likely a sign that something is psychologically wrong with you. I'm considering megalomania, psychopathy, or a severe superiority complex."

"_What_?"

"Muggle words," said Harry. Without elaborating on the matter, he asked, "Do you want minions anyway? I mean, _really_?"

It was obvious that Draco had never objectively considered that there'd be anything wrong with having two large, comparatively unintelligent boys at his beck and call.

"I suppose I haven't thought about it. Understand, Crabbe and Goyle have always been there. My father associates with their fathers, and I believe they've told their sons to stay on my good side. I've never questioned it."

"Tom says that not questioning things is a sign of complacency, and that complacency directly correlates to stupidity."

"Was that an insult?" asked Draco a tad threateningly.

"It was an observation." Harry gave Draco his least offensive smile. "Now, back to the question. Do you actually want Crabbe and Goyle to follow you around like trained dogs?"

Harry took a book from his bag and started reading while Draco thought on it. After a few minutes, the other boy said, "No. They serve no immediate purpose, and they're often irritating."

"Good. Now, determine whether you wish to keep them as friends. If you do, treat them as such. If not, I believe it would best if you ceased following whatever arrangement your fathers have worked out; it's really not good for any of you."

"I'll think about it," said Draco inscrutably. He frowned at Harry. "You're not anything like I expected."

"I'm not anything like _I_ expected," said Harry honestly. "It's funny how things turn out sometimes."

Draco looked like he didn't have the faintest idea what Harry was talking about, but he nodded like he did. "Right." He eyed the book in Harry's hands. "What are you reading?"

"It's called _The Count of Monte Cristo_," said Harry. "It's a favorite of Tom's." He considered something, decided to give it a try, and smirked as he handed the novel to Draco. "Here, you can read it if you'd like. I've already gone through it a time or two, and I've got plenty more in my bag."

Eyes sparkling with curiosity as to what the great Harry Potter read in his free time, Draco set to perusing the story without hesitation. Harry waited a moment to see whether he'd realize immediately that it was a Muggle book. After it became apparent that the blond wouldn't toss it away in disgust even if he had noticed something odd about it, he pulled out a copy of _Lord of the Flies_ (Tom had suggested he read it at some point) and started making his way through the thin volume.

…

Both were engrossed in their respective literature when a bushy-haired girl entered their compartment and said promptly, "Have you seen a toad? Neville's lost one."

Draco glared at her, the look on his face identical to the one Tom wore whenever Harry interrupted his reading. Harry wasn't nearly so obvious about his own (much less potent) irritation, and shot the girl an easy smile, knowing she really hadn't meant to be an annoyance.

"I'm afraid we haven't," said Harry. "But- "

Her eyes widened as they settled on the novels in their hands. "Oh, I love _The Count of Monte Cristo. _I haven't read _Lord of the Flies _because I've heard things about it that make me a bit squeamish, but wow, I'm not used to anyone else my age reading books like that."

"They usually don't," said Harry, nodding. "My guardian places a high value on good literature, though. He puts education next to godliness, and I guess it's rubbed off somewhat." He looked to Draco. "And he's reading it because I gave it to him."

"I _do _like it," Draco cut in, obviously not wanting to sound any less intelligent than Harry or the girl. "Although it's a bit… strange."

This was likely because none of the characters were doing magic. It was obvious that Draco had his suspicions on that account, but was forcing himself to ignore them so he could continue reading without feeling conflicted about it.

"It's because it's translated from French," said Harry instead, as smoothly as he could. He returned his attention to the girl. "You should sit with us. We can't discuss _The Count of Monte Cristo _because I'd hate to give the ending away, but perhaps other books…"

The girl looked shocked, then pleased, then devastated. "Oh, but I can't. The toad-"

"_Accio Neville's toad_," said Harry before she could finish speaking. A second later, he was holding a rather unexceptional looking toad. Harry frowned, Draco sneered at it, and even Hermione looked a bit put out.

"If that was _my _pet," said Draco, "I think I'd rather it stay lost."

"His grandmother gave it to him!" The girl sounded horrified.

"Yes, and she probably had it at school as well," said Draco. "I imagine that was the last time the disgusting creatures were in style."

"Oh, no. Don't be snotty about it," said Harry. "It's really a… very nice toad."

For all the skill at lying Tom had made sure he possessed, he really couldn't get that one to sound believable.

"Well, _I'm _going to go give it back to Neville before one of you do something awful, like throw it out a window," said the girl determinedly.

Then she left, toad in hand. Harry and Draco exchanged a look.

"Do you think she'll be back?" asked Harry.

"Merlin, I _hope _not," said Draco. "She's clearly a stuck-up swot."

"She's also intelligent enough to read five-hundred pages of French literature at age eleven, _and _she's kind enough to look for the toad of a boy she's probably just met because it's the right thing to do. She's also got a bit of a ferocious side, if the way she stormed off just then was any indication. So tell me again, _why _do we not want to befriend her?"

Draco frowned as this occurred to him. "I… didn't think of it like that."

"You should have."

Draco bit his lip, but then leaned forward and asked in a slightly lower voice, "But what if she's a Mudblood? I certainly didn't recognize her, and she didn't give her last name."

Harry sighed; he'd expected that this would come up at some point, although he'd hoped it would be later rather than sooner.

"Tell me, Draco—which house was Merlin in?"

Draco looked confused. "Slytherin, obviously. _Everyone _knows that."

"Right," Harry said. "And what was Merlin famous for?"

"Being good at magic," said Draco.

Harry rolled his eyes. "No, Draco. He was famous, first and foremost, for the steps he took to further Muggleborn rights." Draco opened his mouth to protest, but Harry shut him up by taking a book out of his bag and tossing it over to the blond's seat. "Look on page one-ninety eight. It'll tell you all about it."

"You have _Hogwarts, a History?_" asked Draco incredulously. "Who'd read something like that?"

"Me, apparently," said Harry. He pulled another book from his bag, this one a genealogy of the old wizarding families. The topic wasn't one Harry was particularly interested in, but Tom insisted it was important he memorize the volume from cover and cover. Apparently knowing all the important family trees would give him an edge in determining who might feel a certain amount of loyalty to whom, or which families had significant divisions that could be exploited. "Now, I want you to look up Albus Dumbledore in this, and tell me what his blood status was, and then Tom Riddle—who was later known as Lord Voldemort—after that, and tell me what _his _blood status was. If you want proof that Riddle and Voldemort are the same person, I have a clever anagram I can show you."

Draco shook his head incredulously.

"_What?" _

"No, wait. There's more," said Harry. He pulled out his History of Magic text. "Now, I know no one actually reads the textbook for this class, but you'd be surprised at how interesting some of the content is. For example, see Chapter 9. It's on why Muggleborns are magical. Really, they're descended from squibs who've been away from magic so long that the traditions have fallen away from the family. In other words, they certainly haven't _stolen _their magic as some purebloods think, and the magic itself isn't dulled down any—either a person has magical genes or they don't. It's comparable to a child with red hair popping up after a skipped generation; even if both parents are blonde, it doesn't make the offspring's hair any less red."

Harry clasped his hands together and looked at Draco hopefully.

"It makes sense now, doesn't it?"

Draco gawped. "No, no, no. You cannot do this to me, Potter. I won't look at it-"

"Then you'll be ignorant, which is the same thing as stupid," Harry cut in. "Also, if you refuse to acknowledge that Voldemort was actually a half-blood who knew riling up the purebloods was a way to get a broad support base, then you're susceptible to being manipulated by anyone who decides to use old pureblood traditions as a means to gain followers for world domination."

Harry wasn't sure whether he should be concerned about the look on Draco's face, or if taking a picture and sending it to Tom to brag about how many colors he'd made his skin turn would be a more appropriate reaction. He waited a while for Draco to say something, watching amusedly as pale white and red and something of a greenish twinged swirled on the blond's cheeks. After some time, however, it became apparent that Draco had decided not to speak. Instead, he silently glared at Harry as he started flipping roughly through the pages of the books that had been thrown at him.

The girl appeared again after several minutes, looking tentative.

"Can I still sit here?" she asked.

"Of course," said Harry, looking at Draco and daring him to say something different. The other boy was obviously subdued however, and barely glanced at Hermione before turning back to the works in front of him. "By the way, since I didn't get to introduce myself before—I'm Harry Potter, and this here is Draco Malfoy."

The girl's eyes widened. "_You're _Harry Potter?"

"He's also a bloody nightmare," Draco cut in darkly. "Run before he starts talking. You'd think he'd been raised by the Dark Lord himself, he's so sodding manipulative."

Harry couldn't help but let out a peal of laughter, which only served to make the two of them look at him strangely. "Sorry," he said, shaking his head. "It's just… irony."

"I don't see how," said the girl blankly.

"Well, never mind that. What's your name?"

"Hermione Granger," she said.

Draco flinched at the obviously Muggle name, and Harry could see in his eyes that he wanted to make a comment and chase her off, but Harry nodded pointedly to the books surrounding Draco and the other boy merely glowered darkly and resumed reading.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Hermione Granger," said Harry smoothly. "Why don't you sit by me? Draco is currently struggling with a few revelations I've made concerning a system of beliefs he's followed since he was a small child, and I don't think he's in the mood for company. _However, _he surely won't mind if the two of us sit here and read quietly while we allow him to do his research."

"Um. What?"

"I think you're lower than shit because you're a Muggleborn and Potter is trying to convince me I'm wrong," Draco said sharply. He glared at Hermione, as though it were her fault that his upbringing was faulty. "Now let me read, and maybe I'll find something that'll convince me not to say something insulting."

At that, Hermione looked as though she weren't sure whether to laugh or cry. Harry took her hand and gave her an 'It's okay, he's just a prat' look, and she relaxed somewhat. For a moment there was a long stretch of awkward silence, but then Harry handed her the copy of _The Count of Monte Cristo _that Draco had set off to the side, and Harry himself picked up his own book once more, and the three of them passed the rest of the trip reading together in silence, the sound of turning pages and their quiet breathing the only noises in the compartment.

…

**Author's Note: **

**I really wanted to include the sorting, but it would have made the chapter much too long so I stopped here. I'll hopefully have another longer one posted with in the next few days. Not much to say other than that, except thanks for the reviews and please continue to comment. Constructive criticism is appreciated. **


	6. A Hat and a Feast

"I can't believe that Lord bloody Voldemort was a half-blood," said Draco for the umpteenth time as they waited to be let off the train.

"So you're willing to say his name _now_?" drawled Harry. He really couldn't help using what he referred to as his 'Tom tone.' Draco's statement simply made it necessary.

"He's a fraud. Of course I am. For Merlin's sake, I have to wonder if he believed in blood supremacy at all, or if he just used it to manipulate a bunch of purebloods into fighting for him."

"I think it's a bit of both, really," said Harry. His expression darkened, and in a slightly more serious tone, he added, "I heard that he offered my mother a place with him several times, and she was a Muggleborn. She was simply powerful enough that he didn't care." He took a breath. "With Voldemort, power was more important than purity, but since it purity in the wizarding world was, in a way, power—or at least political power—he chose to take advantage of that."

"You mean he manipulated purebloods to do his dirty work because they were the only ones stupid enough to follow him like brainless cattle," spat Draco. "It's disgusting, is what it is."

"But is it?" asked Harry. "I guarantee that a number of purebloods at least suspected his lineage, but since he was giving them what they wanted either way, I don't think they _cared_. They were willing to bow to one half-blood if it meant eliminating all the Muggleborns in the process."

"He used their own ideology against them," said Draco. "That's… it's…"

"It's intelligent," said Harry. "Voldemort had a marvelous plan, if a slightly psychotic one."

Draco made a low growling noise under his breath. "Of course he did. And it resulted in _my _people following him like idiot bovines. Nearly every prominent pureblood in Britain groveling under a half-blood, and then the rest of the prominent purebloods willingly serving a half-blood who was trying to fight the first half-blood, because the two half-bloods were the ones who were the _strongest. _And then there's Merlin, who even my _father _toted as a genius, and he was a blood traitor, and quite frankly I'm not sure if I should be furious with you for making me doubt _everything_, or… _grateful_-" He spat the word, "-that at least I won't make an idiot of myself should another dark lord come along and attempt to mimic Voldemort's strategy." He saw Hermione looking at him, smiling tentatively, and snapped, "This doesn'tmean I'm going to willingly associate with you."

"But it means you're sensible, and won't _not _associate with her just because she's a Muggleborn," said Harry, before Draco could say anything truly hurtful. "Right?"

"I won't make any guarantees," said Draco gruffly.

"Remember what I said about ignorance and complacency in regards to stupidity? If you _remain _ignorant and complacent in your beliefs-"

"I'll be stupid," Draco finished, rolling his eyes. "Can it with the Muggleborn rights party, Potter. You obviously aren't naïve. There's more to this than simple logic and you know it. For one, if you've heard _anything _of my father, you'll have some idea of how he'd react if I suddenly started spending time with a Mud-" He glanced at Hermione and corrected grimly, "_Muggleborn._"

The crowd of students exiting the train cleared enough for them to get out, and Harry said quickly before they opened the door, "I understand. You need to objectively consider the situation, analyze everything you know pertaining to it, and decide whether forcing yourself to feign ignorance and bigotry is better than the alternative."

"I'd actually been planning to forget all of this and write a scathing letter to my father about how much of a Muggleborn-loving prat Harry Potter is, but I suppose there's some sense involved in doing things your way." He reached up as though to rake a hand through his hair, frowning when he realized that it was gelled back. He muttered something about haircare products and Narcissa wanting a daughter, then said out loud to Harry, "I wasn't lying when I compared you to the Dark Lord. My father taught me how to spot when I'm being manipulated, and I know very well that you're attempting to tailor me into someone who you can be friends with without damaging your reputation."

Harry was somewhat offended by this. "Actually, I'm trying to get you to see things clearly so I can be friends with you and Hermione, who I both like, without worrying about you two hating each other on principal. I'm not manipulating you so much as telling the truth, and if I really cared about how people perceived the friends I'm making, I would find someone from a different family to make friends with. You're a Malfoy. That's going to get me negative attention from some quarters no matter how I spin it. But I _do _like your company, and I'd rather not lose it because you'd chase off any Muggleborns or 'blood traitors' I'd also like to associate with."

Draco eyed him, obviously unsure whether to believe this, but then they really did have to get off the train and there wasn't any more time to discuss it.

…

Neither Harry, Hermione, nor Draco spoke at all as they rode the boats Hogwarts. Harry, because he was a bit nervous about the sorting no matter what Tom said about his house not mattering, and Hermione and Draco because it was apparent that neither was certain what to say to the other. Harry's presence obviously deterred any cruel comments Draco might have made (and Harry like to think that the readings he'd forced on the blond helped with that as well), and Hermione was smart enough to be aware of Draco's currently ambivalent feelings towards Muggleborns and couldn't have had any idea of how he'd react to any attempts at conversation she might make.

All in all, it was a very tense ride, but just as Harry was considering jumping out of the boat and swimming to shore to escape the awkwardness, the boats turned around a bend in the lake, and Hogwarts came into view in all its glory.

Tom had described the school for Harry numerous times, always in flawless detail, using his best storyteller voice—the smooth, charismatic one that all but painted pictures in thin air—but even his beautiful imagery was nothing compared to the castle itself. As intimidating as it seemed at first glance, there was a certain warmth about it—a warmth that was difficult to pinpoint or describe but that was definitely _there_—that made approaching the castle feel an awful lot like coming home.

"It's brilliant," Harry breathed, unable to help himself.

All at once, the tension in the boat drained as Harry and Hermione and Draco all gawped at Hogwarts with identical expressions of awe.

"I think," said Hermione, "that has to be the _most brilliant _school in Britain."

…

"So, which house do you think you're going to be in?" asked Hermione after they were led into a small chamber off the Great Hall. A stern-looking gray-haired woman who called herself Professor McGonagall had led them there, although Harry wasn't sure how she knew where she was going, seeing as she glanced back at him every other second as though unable to believe that he was actually standing right there in the group of first years.

Harry had made a point of pretending not to notice her attention, but obviously Draco and Hermione had, as they both gave him several sidelong glances before seeming to realize that Harry wasn't going to explain.

Even with his friends (or potential friends, was it? Harry wasn't sure as he'd never had friends before and didn't entirely understand at which point he could start referring to Draco and Hermione as such) letting the matter go so easily, Harry was relieved when McGonagall left them alone. He knew much of his first year (at least) of schooling would consist of people giving him odd looks and asking where he'd gone off to after leaving the Dursleys, but that didn't mean he had to _like _it.

"I'm going to be in Ravenclaw," said Harry. "Or rather, I hope I will be. Draco seems to think I'm more a Slytherin, and my guardian says that I have a number of both Gryffindor and Slytherin qualities, butin_ Hogwarts, a History, _it mentions that the Hat is known to take suggestions from students, so I'm hoping that if I ask politely, I'll get the house I want."

"Huh," said Hermione, obviously chewing that over. "I might ask for Ravenclaw as well, if you don't mind. I was thinking I wanted to be in Gryffindor because it sounds more heroic, but I do like learning, and… well, I like you, and I think I would be more comfortable, knowing someone in my house."

"I'm sure you'd meet people either way," said Harry. He smiled sheepishly. "But I wouldn't mind having a friend in Ravenclaw."

"Ask the Hat, then?" asked Hermione seriously.

Harry nodded. "Yes. Let's." His eyes darted to Draco. "Ravenclaw?" he asked hopefully.

Draco made a point of rolling his eyes, but didn't get the chance to speak before the room suddenly filled with a horde of ghosts. Tom had warned him about this, so Harry knew to expect it, and it was apparent that Draco and Hermione did too (Hermione, he imagined, read about it somewhere), but many of the other students started gasping and pointing in horror. Draco snorted and said, "Merlin, I swear some of these idiots must practice behaving stupidly in the mirror every morning. I don't see how they'd be so good at it otherwise."

"It's new to them," Harry chided. "Really, I think the ghosts are interesting as well; I'm simply not being so vocal about it."

"You can't say that you don't think it's entertaining, watching them like this," added Hermione pointedly.

Draco glowered. "No one asked you, Granger."

Harry had to bite his tongue to keep from offering a condescending congrats at referring to Hermione by her last name instead of a title stemming from her blood status.

Apparently, Draco learned quickly.

"Anyway," said Harry, "I-"

"Are you _really _him?"

Harry took a deep breath, prayed for patience, and turned to face the source of the much too excited voice.

"Am I really who?"

The boy across from him was thin and red-haired, with a dusting of freckles across his nose. Beside him stood a slightly shorter, chubbier boy who looked like he wasn't sure whether he should be in awe of Harry or more horrified by the ghosts who were just exiting the room. Harry thought that he appeared to be the sort of person who was very much frightened by life in general.

"Well, you know," said the redhead. He made a vague gesture with his hands. "Harry Potter."

Harry managed a smile. "Yes, I suppose that I am. And you are?"

Draco snorted. "There's no need to ask, Potter. Red hair and a hand-me-down robe? _You _must be a Weasley."

Tom had mentioned the Weasleys to Harry as well; he'd referred to them as a relatively powerful family of 'blood traitors.' They were more loyal to Dumbledore than Tom would have liked, but fierce allies to Harry in his original timeline and generally more formidable than they looked.

In other words, it wouldn't be good to let Draco chase one of them off, not even considering the fact that Harry didn't appreciate that sort of cruelty anyway.

"If I remember correctly," said Harry sharply, "there's been a Weasley Head Boy and a Weasley quidditch captain within the last ten years, and a Weasley prefect currently. Even if they are poor, the family is obviously competent, and honestly, that's more important." Draco looked ready to throw a fit, and Harry added in a softer tone, "Just think about it, alright? Would you rather have Crabbe and Goyle, or a friend with a family that's known for their magical achievements?" Then he turned to Ron and stuck out a hand. "It is nice to meet you, by the way."

He looked somewhat stunned by Harry's defense of him. "Er, t-thanks."

"And you are?" asked Harry, to the boy on Ron's right.

"N-Neville Longbottom."

Harry blinked in surprise. Tom had told him about Neville Longbottom as well. The Boy-Who-Wasn't-Quite-The-Boy-Who-Lived.

Somehow, he'd thought Neville would have been more exceptional.

Then he remembered that the toad he'd found had belonged to a Neville, and recognized that it was probably the same person. Identifying him that way seemed a lot more fitting; The-Boy-Who-Has-a-Toad suited him much better than any other titles.

"Oh, you're Trevor's Neville," said Harry. He frowned when he realized how awkward that sounded, but before he could comment on it further, McGonagall returned, gave him another piercing look, and then announced that the Great Hall was ready for them, and would the students please follow her?

Harry couldn't help it. He reached out and took Draco and Hermione's hands and clutched both for a moment, just for good measure. Hermione smiled a little and Draco looked at him like he'd gone mad, but there was something in both of their eyes that settled his nerves just a bit, and he even managed to keep his hands from shaking as he entered the Great Hall.

The hall itself was another one of those things that even Tom's most brilliant descriptions couldn't do justice. It was bigger than Harry would have expected, and something about the sheer number of students, all of them crowded around their house tables and whispering at the entering first years, made the room seem that much more impressive. The staff table at the front of the space was just high up enough to designate authority, but not so high that it made the teachers seem overly intimidating, and _Merlin_, the enchanted ceiling was everything he'd thought it would be and more. It was marvelous.

Then he suddenly felt someone watching him, and his awe-filled staring was cut short when he locked eyes with a greasy, dark-haired man (Severus Snape, Harry assumed as Tom had mentioned the double-agent several times) for one second before noticing the man beside him, and-

He winced, raising a hand to rub at his scar, which was suddenly on _fire- _

-because of the man in the turban, who he knew was important, and who Tom had already said was one of the Dark Lord's followers.

_Really? _thought Harry incredulously. _I'm here for less than a half hour, and already I have something to think about? _

He sighed, but resolved to push thoughts of the man from his head for the evening. Irresponsible, maybe. But he couldn't do anything about it anyway, and he wanted to enjoy the Hogwarts experience at least a little before he had to start playing the hero.

_But why would he make my scar hurt? _thought Harry with a frown. _That doesn't make sense. _

Only it did, sort of. Seeing as the scar was a curse scar, certain things would likely cause it to react abnormally, although he didn't know enough about the subject to determine what those things might be.

He bit his lip as he scratched his brain for more definite information, then realized what he was doing and told himself once again to drop it.

_I'll research curse scars tomorrow. For now, I have to focus. _

Nodding with conviction, Harry settled in and listened as the Sorting Hat begin to sing its song. When it finally finished, McGonagall started listed names. He didn't care about the first few and only pretended to pay attention, but he did straighten when Hermione was called, only relaxing when the Hat bellowed, "RAVENCLAW!"

He allowed himself a smile, elbowed Draco when he mumbled something about Muggleborn swots, and settled in while he waited for his other friend to be called.

When Draco's name was announced, he looked so nervous that Harry couldn't help but call after him, "Don't worry. We'll be friends no matter what house you're in," because it felt like the sort of thing he needed to say, even though he wasn't sure what would happen if Draco was put in Slytherin, and the progress Harry had already made in convincing him not to be awful to Muggleborns was erased by his biased-housemates.

The thought made him somewhat edgy, and it didn't help that the Hat didn't say anything for a very long time, or that Draco's face seemed to grow more and more pale as seconds on the stool grew to minutes.

_What on earth is going on? _thought Harry, and it was clear that the rest of the Great Hall was wondering the same thing; whispers broke out amongst the students, and McGonagall started looking concerned. Draco's hands trembled so visibly that even Harry could tell that they were shaking. After a long while, Draco mouthed, "_Please_," and Harry couldn't tell whether he was pleading for or against the Hat's evident decision. Really, he wasn't sure whether Draco knew himself.

Then the Hat yelled, "RAVENCLAW!"

His shoulders sagged in relief. He couldn't hold back his smile, and Draco met his gaze as he shakily got off the stool. There was hope on his face, and horror, and disappointment and wonderment and too many emotions for Harry to interpret, no matter how much Tom had worked with him on reading people.

In the end, because Draco _did _look upset, Harry mouthed, "_Are you okay?" _and Draco mouthed back, "_I don't know_," and then he had to go to Ravenclaw table and even though Harry was worried, there wasn't time for him to say anything else.

Unable to help himself, he looked over his shoulder and saw that Draco had taken a seat next to Hermione. She seemed cautious for a moment, but then she murmured something and Draco's lower lip trembled, but he quickly readjusted his expression and said something else—this something that earned him a glare from Hermione—and she said something back, and both of them got this 'we're being ridiculous' expression on their faces and their gazes softened. Hermione said something that was obviously (from the look on her face), along the lines of 'You'll be alright,' and Draco said something that (from the look on his face) was more or less 'What do you care?'

Hermione shrugged and offered some sort of reply, and Draco stared at her, but he looked a bit less ready to cry and some of the tension had left his shoulders.

He caught Harry looking at him and offered a shaky smile and a thumbs up, and Harry relaxed a little. He had no idea what'd just happened, but if Draco was trying to smile and Hermione didn't look ready to kill him, it couldn't have been anything too bad.

Of course, just as Harry started to relax, McGonagall said, "Potter, Harry," and not only did the entire Great Hall go silent and all eyes in the room fly towards him, but he had to get in front of every single staring person and put on a Hat that would set him on a certain course for the rest of his life, and also possibly separate him from the first two friends he managed to make.

Then, of course, there was the fact that Draco would literally _kill him _if Harry didn't follow him into Ravenclaw, a thought that caused him just enough panic that he was surprised he didn't start hyperventilating.

Heart thudding against his ribcage, Harry feigned confidence as best he could and carefully strode towards McGonagall. He took care not to move too slowly because he didn't want to come across as hesitant, but also made sure not to move more quickly than necessary so that he didn't appear jittery. He stood with a confident bearing but not so confident as to potentially be considered arrogant, because Tom had told him numerous times that it was only the bad guys who got away with being arrogant (and antiheros, Harry had protested, to which Tom asked how he thought the savior of the wizarding world could possibly be considered anything less than a squeaky clean protagonist), and he kept his face as carefully blank as he could while not appearing apathetic.

He wasn't sure how good a job he did at comporting himself appropriately, but no one pointed or laughed, and he got to the stool without tripping or making an idiot of himself.

Only vaguely reassured by the small victory, he nervously took a seat and held his breath as McGonagall placed the Hat atop his head.

Immediately, the Hat laughed out loud. So that the whole Great Hall heard.

"_Harry Potter, cared for by Tom Riddle himself," _it said, except this time the voice was in his head. _"Ah, now this is quite diverting." _

"_You can't tell anyone," _thought Harry.

"_Oh, I never do," _said the Hat. _"You have my word on that. But my goodness, I must admit that even I hadn't expected this. The things that man has done with your mind… it's fascinating. Such potential, and he's given you the drive to reach it. Two great wizards, working as family, both of them thirsty to prove themselves, albeit for different reasons… Ah, with his help, Harry Potter, you will do great things." _

His cheeks burned with pleasure. Although Tom told him similar things every once in a while, it was different when someone else said it. _"Er. Thanks, I guess. But people are starting to stare, and you're supposed to be sorting me, so could you maybe get around to that?" _

The Hat chuckled. _"Of course, Mister Potter, although the decision really isn't difficult; brave and ambitious though you are, you've already all but made up your mind. It's a good enough fit—you are exceptionally intelligent and have more than your share of wit—so I'm content to place you in _RAVENCLAW."

Harry sighed in relief as McGonagall pulled the Hat from his head. She looked shocked and disappointed—he vaguely recalled Tom saying that she was Gryffindor's Head of House, and being that Harry's parents had both been in Gryffindor, it was likely she would have expected him to be placed there as well—but her gaze was more curious than cold when Harry met her eye. He smiled to let her know that he was grateful she wasn't angry, then turned and headed to Ravenclaw's table, not even bothering to hide his grin.

Draco and Hermione separated when he came over, leaving space for him in between the two of them.

"You're lucky, Potter," said Draco. "If you'd have left me with _her_, I believe I would have defected."

"Oh, shut up," said Hermione. She looked at Harry. "He's really not so upset to be here as you'd think."

Apparently her statement wasn't entirely accurate, because Draco looked at Harry with slightly panicked eyes.

"The bloody Hat caught onto all the questions _you _were making me ask, and it said something stupid about me wanting to understand things and not just believe them, and I told it that I was a Slytherin but then I remembered what you said about how you don't think it's smart to pick a house because it's the one your parents were in, and the Hat laughed and said that's what he meant about me questioning things—_you've suddenly become curious, _it said—and I asked for Slytherin anyway, and it said he'd put me there if I made it sound like I meant it. I did mean it, or I mean, I wanted to mean it, but I saw cattle and Voldemort and that was all I could think about, and the Hat caught that and put me here. So I come over and Granger starts trying to tell me about things like electicity-"

"That's not-"

"_Whatever_," Draco cut in. "Anyway, now she thinks I want to learn about her Muggle ridiculousness, as though they've _really _figured out how to get to the moon-"

"But they have," Harry cut in. "Over twenty years ago, actually. They went in a rocket."

Draco banged his head on the table, ignoring the looks that the other Ravenclaws were sending him. "You've got to be kidding me."

"Um, Draco?"

"No, don't say anything. Leave me to collect the ruins of my childhood in peace."

Harry had a feeling that he was genuinely troubled and only feigning melodrama to hide it (or perhaps he was really _that _melodramatic and was simply upset enough that he couldn't hide it behind his cool Malfoy mask), so he refrained from prodding Draco further, instead relaxing into his seat while the sorting wrapped up. Before long, Zabini, Blaise had gone into Slytherin (to a muttered, "_lucky bastard" _from Draco), and Dumbledore stood to give a brief (and ridiculous) speech before the food appeared and they were allowed to start eating.

"You're Harry Potter," said an older girl with long, curly hair. A bright silver 'P' was pinned on her robes.

Harry looked up from his meal.

"Yes, thank you. I forgot for a moment there," he said, then realized how rude he sounded and winced. "Um, I didn't mean that. I meant to say that yes, I am Harry Potter, and it's a pleasure to meet you."

The girl smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry. You've probably been getting that a lot."

"Just a bit."

"Right, well. I'll try not to fawn. I was just going to say that if you need anything—or if anyone bothers you because of who you are—just let me know, and I'll try to take care of it." She stuck out a hand. "I'm Penelope Clearwater, by the way. It _is _a pleasure to meet you."

Harry reddened at having reacted to her initial statement like such a smartass when it was obvious that the girl was so genuinely sweet. "Um, thanks," he said, shaking her hand.

Penelope cautiously looked to Draco and added, "The same goes for you. Ravenclaw is generally a neutral house, but some people might lash out at you because of your father. If that happens, tell me or another prefect, and we'll take care of it."

Draco looked genuinely shocked by this, and just a little bit of the melancholy drained from his expression. It was clear by the veiled wariness in his eyes that he knew Clearwater wasn't a wizarding name, but he said nothing of it, only nodding tersely in response to Penelope's comment before he resumed picking at his food.

Harry took that as a sign that it was safe to tuck into his meal as well, although Hermione elbowed him in the ribs before he could start.

"That professor is staring at you."

He glanced over his shoulder, making a face when he saw that it was the greasy man again. "Oh, I'm pretty sure that's just Professor Snape. Don't worry—he has a reason for glaring at me. Not a _good _reason, but he isn't being malicious or anything. I mean, not 'trying to kill me' malicious. I'd just ignore him if I were you."

Draco looked up at that, his sullen mood temporarily forgotten in favor of curiosity. "Why would Severus be glaring at you?"

"_Severus_?" blurted Hermione, and everyone else close enough to have heard Draco's comment stared at him in disbelief.

Draco's cheeks pinked, but he said in his most imperious voice, "_Yes_. Severus. I won't call him that in class obviously, but he is my godfather. I've known him forever."

Even Harry hadn't been aware of that. It was, however, an interesting piece of knowledge, and a potentially useful one at that. Tom respected Snape's competence, but had warned Harry that Snape wouldn't respect him. After Voldemort defeated Harry the second time, details about the double agent's allegiances had slowly come forward, and it'd eventually been pieced together that he'd been on Dumbledore's side for the entire second war. Apparently he'd loved Lily Potter and had made some sort of vow to protect her son.

He'd also hated James, and despised Harry because of how much the two looked alike. That meant Harry would have his work cut out for him if he wanted an ally in Snape. _However, _befriending Draco would be a good start. If Harry could prove that he was a really good friend to someone the potions professor potentially held in high esteem, then maybe—just maybe—he could get the greasy bat on his side.

He'd also have to curb his sarcasm a bit. He could tell just by looking at the man that he wasn't the sort who'd appreciate that particular brand of humor. Not when it was coming from anyone other than himself, anyway.

"That's impressive," another Ravenclaw said, whistling low under his breath. "I mean, you know. That he's your godfather and you aren't dead yet."

"He's not so bad," said Draco, puffing up at the positive attention. "A bit strict, but he wouldn't killme." Refocusing on Harry, he repeated, "_Anyway_, what were you saying about Severus's glaring?"

"It's rather personal on his part. I don't think he'd want me to say anything."

"I just want to know if you're spreading slanderous rumors."

"Let's just say it has to do with my father being an attractive Gryffindor Quidditch captain, and Snape being a Slytherin with a big nose and greasy hair." There. He hadn't told Draco anything that the blond couldn't have guessed himself, so no one could accuse him of sharing personal information about Snape. Not really, anyway.

"Ah, so your father was a bit of an arse."

"In that one, particular context," Harry admitted reluctantly. "But could you not call him my father? I sort of see Tom like that now, and it's weird, hearing the term when it refers to someone else."

"You'll _need _to tell me who Tom is at some point," said Draco. "You can't avoid something like that if we're going to be friends."

"Oh, he really isn't anyone important. Just a distant family member who took me in a couple years back," said Harry, not untruthfully. Tom had even shown him once, how they were loosely related through the Peverell line.

_Very _loosely.

"What's his surname?" said Draco skeptically.

"He was an orphan. He took up a false name and doesn't tend to call himself by his real one." Another half-truth. Harry wondered absently whether the Hat would've put him in Slytherin if it'd known the sort of conversation he'd be having just a few minutes after it was taken off his head.

Then again, he was being intelligent in how he went about manipulating the conversation, and he was only manipulating it in the first place because it was logical to do so.

It was an odd balance, really. How intelligence and ambition and logic and manipulation all went hand-in-hand when placed in the right context. Of course, there could be intelligence without ambition, and certainly ambition without intelligence, but more often than not whoever had one was very likely to have the other.

Hermione and Draco seemed to possess both qualities. He himself did. Tom did.

"Alright, but what _does _he call himself?" demanded Draco sharply, tearing Harry from his musings.

"Tom Smith," lied Harry. He locked eyes with Draco a moment, making sure that the blond registered that Harry had not only given a full name, but one that sounded appropriately like something a person would call themselves to get out of using a less appreciated real name. When Draco nodded, satisfied, he turned back to his plate and began stabbing at carrots.

He'd just captured the final vegetable when Dumbledore stood and the Great Hall fell silent.

"Ahem—just a few more words now that we're all fed and watered," he said. "I have a few start-of-term notices to give you.

"First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well." He looked towards the Gryffindor table when he said this.

"I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to inform you all that using magic in the corridors between classes is forbidden. Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing on the house teams should contact Madam Hooch.

"Furthermore, I must tell you that the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to anyone who doesn't wish to die a very painful death."

Harry did his best not to splutter, because for all the dottiness in Dumbledore's tone, he had a feeling that the headmaster wouldn't include something like that unless there was an underlying truth to it. Tom had warned him not to ignore anything Dumbledore said or did. His senile old man act was nothing more than a façade, and writing him off because of it would be a mistake that only a fool would make.

In other words, the comment about the third-floor corridor likely _wasn't _a joke, and that meant Harry had something else to look into. Already.

"And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!" cried Dumbledore. "Everyone pick their favorite tune, and off we go!"

He groaned and looked to Draco, relieved that the other boy looked just as horrified by the proceedings as he himself did. They stayed firmly silent, unwilling to subject themselves to the indignity of it all, while the rest of the Great Hall burst into song around them.

"Ugh," said Draco when it was finished.

"Ditto," said Harry.

"Such… immature plebeians."

"Philistines, really."

"Oh, be quiet, you two," snapped Hermione, cheeks slightly flushed. "It was fun."

Dumbledore's voice cut off the retort Harry planned to offer. "Ah, music. A magic beyond all we do here." He wiped his eyes. "And now, bedtime. Off you trot." He thought for a moment before adding, as though it'd just occurred to him, "But, ah. Would Harry Potter please remain behind? I'm afraid I must speak to him before he goes off to bed."

Harry banged his head on the table in a manner identical to what Draco had done a short while earlier.

"A meeting with the Headmaster before the first day? Aren't _you _special, Potter?" said Draco, although it was clear that he was teasing.

"Aaaactually," said Harry, "I think I'm in trouble. Or at least about to be interrogated."

"What did you _do_?" asked Hermione.

Harry ducked his head. "Well, see… When I said that Tom took me in, he sorta did so without Dumbledore's permission, and without letting him know where he was taking me…"

Hermione and Draco gaped at him.

"You're kidding," said Hermione.

"Tom _really _didn't do anything wrong," Harry insisted. "Dumbledore placed me with cruel Muggles who didn't even let me know I was a wizard, and Tom thought I shouldn't have to deal with them, so he took me off to an old manor house and started teaching me about magic, and he's never once treated me anywhere near as badly as the Dursleys."

"But you think Dumbledore will be angry," said Draco.

Harry swallowed. "Oh, maybe not _angry_, per say. I think he'll assume that I don't know what's best for me because I'm 'just a child,' and then he'll try to convince me to quit living with Tom, and he might try to get Tom in trouble, and really, I'd hoped I could put this off a bit longer."

The other Ravenclaws were already leaving. It was time for Draco and Hermione to go as well.

"Don't worry, Potter. I'm sure things will turn out alright. I doubt Dumbledore would let the wizarding world's Golden Boy be too unhappy."

"Yeah, it'll be fine," Hermione added.

She tried to smile reassuringly, and Draco said, "Good luck," and then they had to leave.

Harry nervously watched as they and the rest of the students filtered out of the Great Hall, until he was left alone with Albus Dumbledore.

"Ah, Harry Potter," said the headmaster, walking forward to meet him. "I'd been wondering whether you were going to show up this year, seeing as your legal guardians reported you as kidnapped over two years ago."

His tone was perfectly friendly, but his words made something unpleasant twist in Harry's gut.

He forced a smile and hoped it was convincing.

"Professor Dumbledore. I… well, to be entirely honest, it's kind of a long story."

"Then let's return to my office." He smiled benevolently. "I assure you, I have more than enough time."

…

…

**Author's Note: **

**So I've been busy lately, hence the slightly late chapter. It's also unedited, which I do apologize for. I'll try to at least proofread within the next few days, but please point out any grammar/continuity mistakes if you see them before then. **

**Firstly - I know people have expressed reluctance towards Ravenclaw Harry, both because he's not a bookworm in cannon and because the idea of that much neutrality can be boring. In regards to the first- not all Ravenclaws are bookworms; the Harry Potter wiki gives the following as characteristics of the house (this is off memory, so one or two might be off): wisdom, individuality, intelligence and creativity. None of those traits imply that Harry will spend excess time studying, nor deviate excessively far from who his cannon character could have developed into in this particular situation. As for lack of excitement; that's an issue of plot, not necessarily house. Things will soon get interesting enough that Harry's effort to stay neutral won't remove him from conflict for long. **

**Let's see... other repeated concerns that are easier to address here than in individual reviews: **

**Harry being too smart/not eleven-year-old enough: Firstly, Harry won't have special abilities; he'll be more advanced than his peers because he's spent the past three years receiving personal tutoring from a five-hundred year old legendary dark wizard, but I will do my best to keep his abilities in the realm of the realistic. As for being too mature - he's spent the past three years in solely Tom Riddle's company, only speaking with others during brief trips to Diagon Alley. That means every significant conversation he's had since he was nine has been with an extremely eloquent adult. Not only does that mean he'll have picked up particularly good grammar, but he'll have learned catchphrases and specific arguments and turns of phrase that he would incorporate into his own conversations. Cannon Draco and Hermione both speak with very good diction and vocabulary (at least in the movies), and they'll have had more traditional childhoods tha****n Harry. That being said, he is still eleven; he'll act older than that often, but his childishness will come through on occasion.**

**Pairings: Nothing concrete yet, and they won't be a focus of the story either way. They also won't come up at all for several years. **

**That's the big stuff that's been asked about, I think. Anyway, thanks for all the amazing review (hopefully things will settle down so I can get all my replies in), and please continue to tell me what you think. **


	7. First Impressions

Ch.7

…

…

Dumbledore's office, ironically enough, reminded Harry of Tom's study. Of course, the artifacts in Tom's study weren't quite so whimsical-looking, and a portion of them were dark ("The Dark Arts aren't evil, Harry; they only have a greater likelihood of being used malevolently than light magics."), but the impressive assortment of books, trinkets, and magical devices was surprisingly similar.

He wondered for a moment whether Dumbledore wasn't more like Tom than either of them thought, but then the old man sat him down and said, "Lemon drop?" and Harry admitted that their similarities probably didn't extend beyond an appreciation of clever magic.

"No thank you, sir," said Harry. He liked lemons but was just paranoid enough to worry the candy was spiked with Veritaserum

"Right then," said Albus Dumbledore. "I suppose that means we ought to start our conversation straight away."

"I suppose it does."

Dumbledore nodded. "And you know what I called you here to discuss?"

Harry sighed and leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on Dumbledore's desk and placing his head in his hands. "You're going to ask where I've been for the last two years, who I've been with, and – if you're feigning politeness – what my quality of life has been like."

Worry flashed through his eyes. "I _am _concerned about your quality of life," Dumbledore assured him. "It's been my foremost worry since you've disappeared from the Dursleys."

"But not while I was _at _the Dursleys," said Harry evenly. "Because I've seen people treat House Elves better than those Muggles treated me, and quite frankly, if you _were _concerned about my safety or comfort, you wouldn't have left me with them in the first place."

'Harry, I do not think you understand-"

"I understand perfectly," Harry interrupted. "You set up blood wards around the Dursleys property to protect me from harm. _Outside _harm. It didn't occur to you that they might starve or neglect me while I was there. _But_, moving on from that, I don't understand why you couldn't have offered me equally potent protection in the wizarding world. Why not use a Fidelus charm on the house of whoever you drafted to take me in? Or use a glamour to hide my appearance so no one knew I was Harry Potter in the first place? Even setting up basic defense wards should have been sufficient to keep me from Voldemort's reach. You must have spies after all, and should he have managed to back to power, _someone _would've heard about it and we could've taken further precautions then."

Dumbledore looked at him as though he'd grown a second head "Harry, my boy-"

"Mister Potter."

"Pardon?"

"I've only just met you, and you're roughly a hundred years older than I am. I believe that referring to me by my first name is somewhat strange, and it makes me feel as though you're attempting to make me feel comfortable around you when I'm really not." He smiled. "Sorry. You can continue now."

It was obvious that the now flustered Headmaster couldn't help himself. "Who have you been staying with?"

"My guardian."

"And his name?"

"Tom."

Dumbledore sighed. "I meant his surname, Harry."

"He doesn't trust you enough for me to tell you – although he occasionally goes by the alias 'Tom Smith.' He's not trying to make me into a Death Eater though, and really he has no plans to turn me against you either. He just worries that you'll try to take me away from him, which would turn out poorly for both of us." As Harry could hardly say he quelled his father's latent sociopathic tendencies and that Voldemort might end up with a much older, more powerful twin if Harry were forcibly taken from Tom, he left it at that.

"Mister Potter… Are you familiar with the concept of Stockholm Syndrome?"

Harry huffed. "Of course I am. I'm also certain that it's common among kidnapping victims and since Tom has told me numerous times that I can go back to the Dursleys if I like, I don't think I qualify. There's also the fact that Tom doesn't abuse or starve me, and that he buys me presents and does kind things and gives me school lessons. Now if you don't mind, it's getting rather late and I have classes tomorrow, so…''

The headmaster pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, clearly warding off a headache.

"Go, Mister Potter. But I am not going to let this rest."

"I didn't expect you would," said Harry, and he hopped down from his chair and left.

…

Harry's first days at Hogwarts progressed as he'd expected they would. Stares followed him wherever he went and several times he caught students whispering things like, "That's Harry Potter!" and "There he is!" and "Why is he spending time with a Malfoy?" Harry made it a point to ignore them; if they wanted to speak face to face he would be polite, but as very few people seemed to think talking to him was preferable to talking _about _him, his interaction with his admirers was really very limited.

The students might have been irritating, but Hogwarts itself was downright _frustrating_. The castle was like a maze. There were too many staircases, many of them with trick stairs, too many corridors, too many ghosts, and too many portraits that refused to help you even if you made a point of asking nicely.

There was also Argus Filch, who was a bitter old squib who liked getting students in trouble. Mrs. Norris followed him everywhere, and once when Harry was trying to get to breakfast, she apparently sensed Maya and lunged at where she was wound around Harry's arm. There'd really been no choice but to stun the awful creature, and he spent the rest of the week looking over his shoulder, sure Filch was going to jump out of a dark corridor and exact his revenge.

Then, of course, Harry had to grow accustomed to the classes themselves. For all that Tom told him he was getting a head start, Harry hadn't realized how much of one until he had to sit through lectures on things that he'd read in books when he was eight. He often found himself charming more advanced books to look like his textbooks so that he could read new information instead of paying attention to his teachers. Boredom was especially a problem in Defense Against the Dark Arts, taught by Professor Quirrell—the Voldemort follower in the turban—as apparently the man's act went beyond stuttering and extended to a façade of complete incompetence. Even Draco found the class completely dull, and the two of them spent most of their time playing hangman or passing notes while Hermione looked on disapprovingly.

Harry did find that he wasn't _as far _ahead in Astronomy since he and Tom hadn't studied the subject in-depth, although he thought the class pointless enough that he had no more enthusiasm for his lessons than he did for any of the others.

In fact, the one lesson that Harry found stimulating—if not for the content, then for the challenge of dealing with the professor—was Potions.

He'd honestly expected to hate Professor Snape, whom Tom had led him to believe was morose and humorless and simply _gloomy_, but Harry soon found that Snape was honestly very interesting beneath his bat-of-the-dungeons persona.

Oh, he was every bit as big an arse as Harry had expected, but he was an arse in a way that made dealing with him just a little bit exciting.

"Ah, yes," drawled Snape when he came to Harry's name while calling roll on his first day of class. "Harry Potter. Our new – celebrity."

Draco exchanged a look with him, but Harry only shrugged; he'd been expecting it.

Snape soon finished the list of names and peered at the class with impossibly dark eyes. "You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making. As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicious power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses… I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death – if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

Everyone in the class was utterly silent, and even Harry was impressed. Such passion for magic—for any sort of magic, even potions—was admirable. Brilliant, even.

He felt a little bit breathless. Draco himself was wide-eyed, and Hermione almost quivered in her seat, although Harry couldn't tell whether it was from excitement or terror.

"Potter!" said Snape. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Harry blinked. Tom had taught him a bit about picking hidden messages out of seemingly casual statements, and part of that entailed learning a certain amount of symbolism. Flower language had fallen under the category, and though Harry hadn't spent more than a few days on the subject, he recalled that asphodel was a type of lily that meant 'my regrets follow you to the grave' (it'd stuck out to him because of his mother), and thinking back on it now, he'd thought wormwood significant because its meaning seemed so appropriate. It had intrigued him, that a flower symbolizing bitter sorrow would be a key component in the Draught of Living Death.

Asphodel and wormwood together… well, it would symbolize bitterly regretting a death, and asphodel was a lily…

"You would get a very loaded sentence," said Harry softly, unable to help but smile just a little when Snape reared backwards as though he'd been slapped. His eyes were wide with shock and something else (something distinctly _not _malicious), and Harry murmured a quick, "Thank you," before adding, "But the answer you were looking for is the Draught of Living Death, Professor."

Snape blinked. "Hmm… Perhaps the Hat wasn't mistaken in your sorting after all." But he wasn't finished. "Very well. Where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

"Where would _I _look? At the moment, I would look in your storage room. If I were the sort of person who made a living off of finding bezoars, however, I say I'd search in the stomach of a goat."

"Two points from Ravenclaw for cheek," snapped Snape, and Harry would have been angry if not for Draco's twitching lips and the comical look of horror on Hermione's face.

"So you aren't a _complete _moron," said Snape, sounding disappointed. He looked to Draco. "What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane."

Draco gave his best (most infuriating) smirk and said, "They're the same thing, Professor. Aconite would also be an acceptable term."

"Five points to Ravenclaw," said Snape, and Harry thought it almost amusing, how little he cared about showing blatant favoritism for his godson.

Snape seemed to sense that Harry was feeling some inkling of amusement and sent him a fierce glower (because apparently feeling amused in the Potions classroom was unacceptable), which would have scared him if he hadn't spent the last years growing used to _Tom's _occasional glower. Then the professor spun away from Harry and Draco and addressed the whole room once more.

"Well? Why aren't you all copying this down?" he demanded.

The lesson did grow a bit less exciting from there. Snape finished his lecture before pairing them off and ordering them to make a boil-curing potion. Harry was put with Draco, who Snape obviously liked enough to allow his partner of choice. And as he couldn't insult Harry's potion without doing the same to his godson's, the grumpy professor simply avoided the both of them and settled for looming near where the Hufflepuffs were brewing instead, sweeping from place to place with his black cloak snapping at his heels, spitting insults whenever it seemed to strike his fancy.

"He's a bit of a bully, isn't he?" asked Harry quietly.

Draco shrugged. "He's got to keep order. It's first year potions. Imagine the chaos if people thought they could get away with things."

"But this just makes them more nervous. Look at the poor Hufflepuffs; I think half of them are on the verge of heart-attacks."

Draco looked, lips turning downwards when he saw what Harry meant. "You may have a point. Then again, and this is mostly guessing, but my father says that Snape used to be a Death Eater. He only got out of Azkaban because Dumbledore claimed he'd been a spy. That in mind, I expect Snape doesn't actually _want _to teach, but that Dumbledore makes him because the Wizengamot wants him under the Headmaster's supervision."

It was an intelligent conjecture. "I guess that's understandable… But _still. _Insulting eleven-year-olds? Isn't that a bit pathetic?"

"He doesn't insult me. In fact, I'm sure it's just the stupid ones he goes after, and I can hardly blame him for that. Sometimes, I think the Ministry should make everyone take tests before they graduate Hogwarts and neuter the people who don't score high enough. It'd keep idiots from breeding, and then the rest of us wouldn't have to deal with morons-" A cauldron exploded somewhere on the Hufflepuff side of the classroom, and Draco winced, "-like _that." _

"Draco," Harry chided.

"What? It isn't as though you've shown any particular affinity for idiots either."

"That doesn't mean I think we should _remove their reproductive organs_."

Draco huffed a sigh. "Well, maybe not. I suppose society does need its menial laborers." He shook his head. "Anyway, we were talking about Snape."

"And how he's a bully."

"But more importantly how he doesn't like idiots," said Draco. "Watch him. I can all but guarantee that he'll be much less cruel to anyone who shows competence. Perhaps that's not the best way to go about things, but I've heard that by the time you get to your sixth year, he's actually a decent teacher. Since, you know, the idiots don't last that long."

Harry's stomach tightened. "What do you mean, they don't _last_ that long?"

A laugh burst from Draco's lips, the sound almost ridiculously bright and cheerful in the dour silence of the dungeons. Even Snape looked rather irritated by it, although he merely gave a half-hearted, "Focus on your potion, Mister Malfoy," before pointedly turning away.

Draco scooted closer to Harry and said in a lower voice, "They drop the class after their O.W.L.s, Potter. Although your ability to jump to conclusions is rather amusing."

Harry smiled embarrassedly. "Sorry. I think it's the atmosphere. I can easily imagine wayward potions students going missing down here."

"If you say so," said Draco. He paused, then pointed out, "For all your complaints, you really don't seem to _dislike _Snape."

"Oh, no. I said he's a bit of a bully, not that I don't like him." He shrugged. "He's entertaining, really."

Draco fidgeted. "Entertaining enough that you'd be willing to have tea with him this Sunday? He invited me, and he didn't say I couldn't bring friends and I would really like you to meet him…"

Even if Harry hadn't found Snape an interesting character, he would have said yes solely because of the casually hopeful look on Draco's face. "Fine. I'll go. But… if he kills you for bringing me, or kills me for letting myself be brought, the not-dead person has to give a really nice speech at the funeral."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Alright, Potter. I'll even bring flowers if it'll make you feel better."

Harry nodded. "Thanks. I love having friends who exceed expectations."

"Prat," muttered Draco, but he was smiling and Harry couldn't help but mirror the expression.

As they made their way out of the dungeons after class, Hermione looked at them both as though they were utterly mad.

"Laughing and smiling and chatting in _Snape's class_?" she asked. "You've lost your minds."

"But he's got such a lovely personality," said Harry.

"I found him a real delight," agreed Draco.

She threw her hands up in the air and stomped away, leaving the two of them to watch her go, amusement in both of their eyes.

…

…

**Author's Note: **

**Sorry, not much time for comments. I've been super busy lately (if the awful updating schedule hasn't made that obvious). I've got a week off for Thanksgiving starting Friday though, so hopefully I'll get another chapter or two posted then. Until then, I'll do as well as I can with review replies but this is like 'give a lot of tests before Fall break' week, so I might not be great with getting back to people. **

**Thanks for the support and I hope you enjoyed the chapter. **


	8. Behind the Turban

It was that Saturday when Draco cornered Harry in the Ravenclaw common room, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot.

"I want the book," said Draco, biting at his lower lip. "The one I was reading before. The, um…"

"The Muggle one?" Harry suggested.

"It doesn't mean anything," said Draco quickly. "I mean, obviously Granger isn't an idiot, and you seem to be right about Muggleborns not being worse at magic in general, but it's hard for me to really _believe _that. Then there are the consequences I'd have to deal with if I suddenly decided to start ignoring everything my father's taught me—and he's already upset with me for not being in Slytherin—so I won't make any promises, but it _was_ a good book, and I think maybe I could learn more, to make a more informed decision, if I picked up on a bit of Muggle culture. I mean-" He scooted forward, dropping his voice to a whisper, "-even Muggle _technology _is interesting. Entwhistle had this book lying open on his bed, and it talked about rockets and television and things, and-"

"And you enjoyed learning about it," Harry finished, smiling.

"I didn't say that."

"You implied it."

Draco's eyes narrowed. "_Look_. Are you going to give me the book or not?"

"Of course," said Harry. He gestured for Draco to follow him back up to their dorm. The blond trailed him almost eagerly. "I have several others as well—or more than several others really—you might want to look at if you've got time. You can take whatever you want so long as you put it back."

He scratched the back of his head, looking uncomfortable. "Er. Thanks Potter."

Harry eyed him oddly. "You know you can call me Harry, right?"

Draco seemed genuinely surprised by this. "I never even thought about it. I guess I always called Crabbe and Goyle… er, Crabbe and Goyle, and Nott I called Nott, and I only call Pansy by her name because she whines if I don't… I suppose it's a bit of a pattern, really. My father always refers to his associates by their surnames, so I thought I ought to do the same." Draco frowned. "Then again, he really isn't friendswith any of them, and I amfriends with you." He looked at Harry almost tentatively. "Alright. I could call you Harry, I suppose."

"Good."

"But I won't call Granger 'Hermione.'"

_Not yet_, thought Harry, but if Draco was asking for Muggles books already, well… Harry was pretty sure he'd be open to the idea of genuinely befriending a Muggleborn before long.

…

Sometimes, Harry saw flashes of Voldemort in Tom. It didn't happen often, and Tom was always very quick to control his anger—and he always looked frightened afterwards, as though worried he'd regressed into something less than human—but there were little glimpses after Harry did something stupid, or one of the house elves messed up, or Tom heard something on the wireless or read something in the Daily Prophet that made his jaw tick and his entire body go taut with anger and his eyes flash with the barest hint of crimson.

Those brief lapses in control were the first thing that Harry thought of when Snape saw that Draco had brought a guest to their Sunday tea.

"I can explain," said Draco immediately. "Harry is a good friend, he thinks you're interesting, and he wants to get to know you better, so-"

"I did not say you could bring 'friends,' Draco," said Snape in a low, choked voice. A vein in his forehead was pulsing rather alarmingly. "_Especially _not Hogwarts's newest celebrity, who seems to think it's acceptable to disrespect even Albus Dumbledore-"

"I was defending my father!" Harry protested, unable to help himself. The knowledge that Dumbledore had been talking about their meeting behind his back only served to further his irritation.

Snape's eyes flew to him. "_What?" _

Harry straightened, tilting his head up. "Tom. My guardian. He rescued me from the Dursleys and he hasn't done a thing to hurt me. He's even been very reasonable about everything, taking care to convince me that Dumbledore is a good man even though he doesn't like him, and Dumbledore wants to take me away from him anyway. That's why I didn't cooperate—I don't want to make it easier for anyone to make me leave Tom." His eyes narrowed. "Why? Did Professor Dumbledore _imply _that I showed disrespect?"

The potions master looked so surprised that Harry thought that a slight breeze might've knocked him over. "He said that you refused to tell him where you've been the past two years," said Snape. "But- This Tom. What did you call him?"

_Ah. _Harry realized what had tripped Snape up. "My father," said Harry. "It's not official, as I'm sure you understand that the wizarding world would never go for it even if Tom wanted to, not when Dumbledore thinks I should be elsewhere, but Tom is my father in every way but name."

"And… James Potter?"

"He _was _my father," said Harry. "But I don't remember him. I don't _know him. _I think I might love him, because of who he is and how he died, but…" He trailed off, realizing that he was giving away too much. "Anyway, can I stay for tea? I promise I won't disrespect you unless you pry about Tom."

There was a long stretch of silence in which Snape looked as though he had no idea what to say—Harry found it quite reminiscent of Draco's expression after he threw the pile of books at him on the train—but eventually, the dark-haired man nodded and silently bid Draco and Harry to enter his quarters.

"I've talked to your father," said Snape to Draco as he went about procuring an extra cup for Harry. Harry caught sight of a plate of biscuits on the table and wandered over. He hesitated, unsure whether he should grab any, but Draco took two and absently handed one over. Harry shot his friend a grateful smile, but the blond's eyes were fixed on Snape.

"My father?" he asked, his voice straining for disinterest but falling far short.

"Yes. Have you heard from him?"

"He sent me a letter," Draco muttered, picking at his biscuit. "He told me that he was disappointed I wasn't in Slytherin, but that Ravenclaw wasn't as awful as I was thinking." He pursed his lips. "I hadn't thought it was _awful _at all. I was upset, but mostly because I worried he might be. And now he _is_, and…" Draco trailed off, obviously not wanting to say more for fear of losing his composure.

He miserably stuffed his now-crumbled biscuit in his mouth.

"Lucius," said Snape, after a moment, "is complicated. He asked me how you were doing in classes, and seemed pleased when I told him of your progress. However, he refused to discuss the sorting. I cannot profess to know how he'll continue to act in the future, but understand that he is not angry at you. He's… surprised, but it isn't the travesty it would have been should you have found your way into Hufflepuff or Gryffindor. In fact, I believe he even expressed some amount of satisfaction at the proof of your intelligence."

Draco relaxed a little. "That's good. Right?"

"It is not bad," said Snape. He set Harry's cup in front of him and took a seat, reclining back into his chair. "Do not dwell on the matter at the moment. Worrying will do you no good." He paused, and then casually changed the subject. "How have you been adjusting to Hogwarts, other than in regards to your rather… unexpected sorting?"

"It's alright," said Draco. "I'd find it much preferable if the staircases would stay in one place, and if someone would find a way to kill Filch's cat without anyone finding out about it. Harry stunned it, but-"

"_Draco-" _

But Snape only looked amused. "You stunned Mrs. Norris, Mister Potter?"

Harry wondered whether Snape disliked Filch because the squib competed with his spot as 'most feared faculty member,' or if there really was a human being somewhere beneath Snape's flawless double-spy exterior, and the man detested Filch simply because anyone with a heart detested Filch.

"She attacked M- me," Harry muttered. While he thought the Slytherin Head of House might be slightly less unreasonable about Maya than the Gryffindor Headmaster, he still wasn't about to bring attention to his venomous familiar.

"And what were you doing to warrant it?" asked Snape incredulously.

"Just walking to breakfast. I guess she just doesn't like me."

"How... shocking," drawled Snape. He looked back to Draco. "How have your classes been?"

"Well, they'd be going better if Harry and Granger weren't in all of them. I suppose Harry isn't so bad because it sounds like Tom is quite strict with his lessons, but being bested by a Muggleborn?" Snape started to speak, but Draco went on, "It isn't even because of her blood, honestly. It's just… I've been around magic all my life, and she _hasn't. _It's irritating that she's so good at it."

Draco hadn't said any of this before, and though he looked slightly embarrassed by having admitted it, Harry could also see that he was being sincere.

"Miss Granger is something of a prodigy," said Snape, sounding as though forcing the words from his lips pained him more than any Unforgivable possibly could. "Already, a handful of teachers are claiming that she is the brightest witch of her age. Such comments, loathe as I am to admit it, are not unwarranted. She also spends an inordinate amount of time reading, something which I would not expect of you. I'd prefer my godson to have a life." His dark eyes fixed on Harry. "As for Mister Potter… many of the faculty suspect that he's been given illegal lessons on wandwork prior to attending Hogwarts."

Harry smirked wryly, meeting Snape's gaze without fear. "Tom knows about the prophecy, sir. He's merely taking pains to make sure things turn out the right way."

Snape stared at him several moments longer, and Harry reflexively put up his Occlumency shields. However, the older man did not attempt to read his mind, but rather searched his expression for nearly a full minute before apparently finding whatever he'd been looking for.

"I won't fault him for that," said Snape finally, sounding put out that he could hardly get mad at Harry's guardian for training him to defeat Voldemort. "But do not think that you may do whatever you please at Hogwarts because _Tom _is willing to break rules for you_. _You've behaved acceptably so far, and I suggest you continue to do so. Should you ignore this suggestion, I personally will instill enough sense in you that you should never again so much as _think _of setting a toe out of line."

It was a testament to Snape's skills at intimidation that Tom Riddle's unofficial son visibly gulped at his threat.

"Yes, sir," said Harry.

Satisfied, Snape took a drink of his tea. "Very well." His voice turned infinitely less terrifying. "Now, Draco, have you received any packages from your mother?"

And the conversation grew almost entirely absent of tension, and considerably more centered around Draco from that point forward.

…

Harry decided to spend his Sunday evening in the library, and Draco insisted upon following after him. For some time they merely sat and read, until Draco blurted the question that had clearly been bothering him for some time.

"What prophecy were you talking about?"

He looked up from his book on curse scars and frowned. "I'm going to warn you once. If you choose to ignore that warning, I will tell you. If you decide you don't want to know quite yet, I'll keep the information to myself until you ask again. If or when you do so, I'll take into account that you've considered the warning and genuinely wish to know, and I'll explain everything without further prompting. Understood?"

Draco's eyes widened, his expression riddled through with shock. He obviously hadn't expected it to be something so serious. "Y-yes. I understand."

Knowing that Draco had grown up in a house with a former Death Eater was vaguely reassuring; he trusted that his friend knew how to consider this sort of thing with the gravity it deserved.

"The prophecy is a life or death matter concerning my connection to Lord Voldemort."

The blond physically recoiled, shocked enough that he didn't have the presence of mind to bother hiding his thoughts. Harry could almost read everything that went through his head as it played across his features. _But it shouldn't matter anymore – Voldemort is dead. _

_Does anyone really believe that? _

_This could mean choosing between Harry and my father. _

_If Voldemort's a lying half-blood, is there really a choice? _

_Do I want to have to deal with any of this right now_?

The answer was evidently no.

"I'll ask you later," said Draco. "After… after I'm more sure about things. For now, I'm pretending the prophecy doesn't exist. Alright?"

"Alright," said Harry, having expected that sort of response.

For a moment, the two of them were silent, thinking about things that eleven-year-olds shouldn't have had to think about, but then Harry asked casually, "What do you know about curse scars?" and they both relaxed a little.

"You mean like yours," said Draco, catching on quickly.

"Yes."

"Um… why? Is there something wrong with it?"

Harry debated for a moment whether he should say anything, then decided that even if Draco wasn't interested in helping him—that, Merlin forbid, even if Draco decided to _betray him_—he wasn't sharing any truly sensitive information.

"It's going to sound ridiculous, but my scar hurts whenever I look at Professor Quirrell."

Draco wrinkled his nose. "Are you sure it's your _scar_? I got a headache in Defense the first day because of all the garlic, and… well, whatever that smell coming from his turban is. I swear he's got a dead squirrel shoved in there or something. It's disgusting."

Harry couldn't help but laugh. "You're not wrong, but the first time I noticed it was at the Welcome Feast. I couldn't have smelled him there. There's something about him that my _scar_ doesn't like, but the only thing I've read so far is about symbolism of the shape of scars, and…" His eyes caught on a passage in the middle of the page he'd been skimming. "Oh, bloody hell."

"What is it?" asked Draco, leaning over to snatch up the book. Harry tried to grab it away from him, but Draco was faster and had longer arms, and he managed to tear it from Harry's grasp. The blond frowned, searching for whatever had made Harry react as he did, and then recited shakily: "Scars from uncommonly malicious curses have been known to react adversely in the presence of… those who initially cast the curse. Although there seems to be no particular pattern as to how this reaction manifests, it is theorized that because dark magic is often cast at the expense of a witch or wizard's soul, fragments of that soul might break from the user's essence and attach to the victim by means of said magic. Magical theorists expect that when placed in proximity with the caster, the essence of the caster (which now resides in the victim) is drawn towards its original host." Draco stared at him with nothing less than pure horror on his face. "Harry. _Harry_."

_Tom knew this was going to happen, _Harry thought angrily. _He had to have known this was what was wrong with Quirrell because _he's _the bloody problem, and he didn't tell me, and- _

He took a deep breath. _Obviously I didn't have trouble figuring it out myself, and if it didn't kill me in Tom's original time when I didn't have any idea what was going on, it won't kill me this time. He's just trying to… _

To what? Harry knew that Voldemort hadn't come back until later on. So why would it matter whether Tom told Harry exactly what he had to do _now_? Harry could've told Dumbledore what was going on and the Headmaster could've taken on the Dark Lord, and everything else would still play out the same way when he grew older.

_But this way I'll have to do research and personally gather any information I hope to get. Any case I could make against Quirrell wouldn't be as convincing without having all the facts, so there's a good chance Dumbledore won't believe me – if I ever figure out enough of what's going on to even attempt to structure a legitimate argument in the first place. And after a while I'd get tired of him dawdling, but I'd be too involved to pull out, and… and then I'd have to face Quirrell myself. _

Which was what Tom was undoubtedly going for.

Tom didn't say anything because he wanted Harry to have the experience. He wanted Harry not only to be powerful and know all the right spells, but to be used to dealing with Voldemort, and risking his life, and keeping a cool head when it counted. The sort of things the Harry in Tom's original universe would have learned – the things that Tom apparently wanted Harry _himself _to learn.

_I could die from this, and he's letting me deal with it anyway. Because it'll make me stronger. _

"Harry?" Draco repeated again. "Your scar _did _come from Voldemort, right?"

"No, it's been Quirrell since the beginning," Harry snapped, then immediately felt bad when Draco flinched. "Sorry. I'm just…"

"Well, I wasn't expecting you to be happy," said Draco, setting the book down with shaking arms. "I just… bloody hell. This is…"

"Yeah," breathed Harry. He squeezed his eyes shut, not sure if he wanted to cry or scream. He did know that he needed to write Tom and confirm his analysis of the situation—not where Quirrell was concerned, because he knew he wouldn't get much (if any) information on that account, but about _why _he wasn't getting information. He also needed to figure out how to deal with the reality of his suspicions.

He'd known to some extent that Tom had plans for him and Tom had never made a secret of that fact. The first day they met, Tom had told Harry about the prophecy and Voldemort's expected return. He'd even mentioned that Harry would play a large part in everything. It was just… it was hard to determine whether Tom was keeping secrets like this for Harry's own good, or if there was more puppet mastering involved than Harry had originally thought.

_And where would it leave me if it turns out there is? _

Tom cared for him. He _did. _He _had to. _

But how much? He knew that Tom didn't exactly see things like love and caring and family as a normal person would, but he'd always been there for Harry and that had been enough.

Learning that Voldemort (in some form) was back and at Hogwarts, and that Tom hadn't even hinted at it… It forced Harry to question _exactly_ how Tom saw him, and to wonder whether maybe he hadn't overestimated his guardian's capacity for human emotion.

"D'you think it's possession?" asked Draco, suddenly sounding very young.

Harry realized suddenly that his friend hadn't had years to deal with the reality that he'd have to fight a murderous dark lord at some point, and so wasn't nearly as equipped to deal with the reappearance of said dark lord.

"I imagine so. I'm not sure of _how _Quirrell would've gotten possessed, but… what else could it be? I mean, Quirrell obviously isn't Voldemort, but my scar is reacting to him, so some part of Quirrell is Voldemort, and possession is the only way I can think of to explain it."

"Should we tell Dumbledore?"

"We don't have any evidence," said Harry. "Not except that I get headaches around Quirrell. I don't know if he'd believe it, and if we start telling people our suspicions, Quirrell might find out, and if Voldemort is possessing him, Voldemort would find out, and we'd both be in _real _trouble. I think we should wait and see if anything else happens."

"But… _Voldemort!" _hissed Draco.

"Am I wrong?" asked Harry. "Do _you _think Dumbledore would do anything?"

Draco hesitated marginally, but shook his head. "No one in their right mind would believe this, let alone do anything about it. I mean, it's Quirrell. I'm not entirely sure that _I _believe it."

"Exactly."

"So… What do we do?"

Harry hesitated. "I think…. I think we ought to wait. See what Quirrell does, and if we can discover anything else." He blinked. "Oh! We should explore the third floor corridor. Or at least I'm planning on doing it sometime soon. You don't have to come if you don't want."

Draco looked at him like he was mad. "Where did you come up with such a daft idea? Is dealing with Voldemort's probable return too boring for you? Have to go seek out something even _more _dangerous? Christ, are you _suicidal?_"

"Of course not," said Harry quickly. "Think about it. If Dumbledore's allowing something potentially deadly in the school for any reason, then that reason's got to be an important one. Then there's Voldemort, who wouldn't bother possessing a Hogwarts teacher without extremely good justification. Between Dumbledore's extremely important reason for the… _thing _in the third floor corridor and Voldemort's presence suggesting that he's after something _extremely important_, well… I imagine they're related."

Draco buried his head in his hands. "I despise it when you make sense. It always seems to mean something unpleasant for me."

"I said you don't have to go. In fact, it could be awkward for you if your father-"

"Oh, he won't hear, and if he does, it's not like he'll figure out that we were on a mission to stop Voldemort." Draco sighed, shaking his head. "As for going with you, well. I can't exactly let my only friend here get killed. Can I?"

Harry blinked. "Only friend?"

"Haven't you noticed?" asked Draco baldly. "The Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs obviously don't trust me, not that I'd want to associate with them either way. I think the Ravenclaws take it too personally when I say nasty things about them - they've got no sense of humor, obviously. And the Slytherins won't touch me with a ten foot pole because I'm associating so much with you. I'm a… a what's it called?"

"Pariah?" suggested Harry.

"_That_."

Now that he thought about it, Draco really wasn't lying.

"Oh."

"Right. So obviously you can't die, or else it'd be awkward for me. Merlin, the embarrassment of not having anyone to partner with in class. I couldn't imagine."

"You could always partner with Hermione. I think most of the time, people only go with her because she's so smart." _And because I never do, since I always gravitate towards you. Because you… well, you need me more. _

It was an awkward thought, but not untrue. Beyond the reality of Draco's otherwise friendless status, which Harry hadn't even noticed, he'd spent his first days worrying that Draco would return to the 'dark side' should Harry neglect him. He still worried about that a little, although getting invited for tea with Snape went a long ways in establishing trust in his friend.

Still, there were so many variables, and Harry couldn't help but feel as though if he let Draco down in any way, the blond might take it as a personal affront and start lashing out, which really wouldn't turn out well for any of them.

_Tom has made me too suspicious_, thought Harry, but in this case, he wasn't sure that his suspicions were unfounded. Growing up as he had, Draco was something of a wildcard as far as long-term friends went and Harry wasn't going to let him slip away because of a bit of neglect. Hermione's situation wasn't so delicate, and anyway she seemed to get along with the other Ravenclaws surprisingly well. She didn't exactly have people lining up to be best-buddies or anything, but even when Harry wasn't around she found people to talk to.

As Draco's statement indicated, the same couldn't be said about him.

"I'm not partnering with Granger," Draco muttered, tearing the Boy-Who-Lived from his thoughts. "I've got the facts now, but I'm still analyzing things and I haven't called her Mudblood once to her face, which out to be enough for the time being."

"I'm not talking about partnering with her for her sake," said Harry. "I think it'd be good for you. Besides, there are things you could learn from one another. I'm sure she'd be as fascinated to hear about pureblood culture as you'd be to learn about electricity."

"Potter…"

"Right," said Harry. "I'll leave you to figure things out on your own time."

"And force me to endure Granger's presence at meals every day in between?" he drawled.

"Naturally."

Draco merely rolled his eyes, signaling an end to their conversation. He resumed reading his copy of _The Count of Monte Cristo _(making sure to keep the binding pressed into the table so no one could see the title)_, _and Harry shoved aside the book on curse scars and unenthusiastically started a Transfiguration essay that was due the following morning.

….

….

**Author's Note: **

**So, there's a bit of plot. Hopefully it wasn't too dry. Anyway, thanks for all the comments (and favorites and follows), and I'd love to hear what you think.**


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